Ghosts in the Deep
by Absalom2692
Summary: Sequel to "Between Brothers." *Malcolm/Reese slash* It's been years since Malcolm committed a terrible crime, but the past isn't through with him. Disclaimer: I do not own these characters.
1. Out of the Past

**AN: This is a sequel, so read "Between Brothers" first. I know I said I wasn't going to write a sequel, but a huge storm of ideas came upon me and I couldn't resist. Besides, for such a dark story, I feel like I let Malcolm off a little too easy. (Consider this a warning: This story will most likely end in a very, very twisted fashion. More so than last time.) Anyway, here's the beginning, and I hope you like it!**

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><p>He could never really escape from himself. His disfigured shadow was always in the periphery of his vision, a constant reminder of the ghosts of the past, which lurked just beneath the surface of every moment of his waking life, creeping in the dark corners of foreboding rooms and waiting to pounce at a moment's notice. The threat lay in wait, gnawing at the back of his mind like a mental tumor, slowly eating away at whatever humanity remained.<p>

However, ever-present guilt aside, Malcolm had to admit that the first several years were good, perhaps even the best of his life. He and Reese moved into an apartment together after college, citing expenses and convenience to avoid suspicion. The place was decently sized, far enough from home to visit on weekends if they wanted, but far enough that Lois couldn't just drop by unannounced whenever she pleased. And it was just a few minutes away from Dewey's college, so they were able to see him as often as they liked. It was a nice set-up.

By the time Malcolm turned 24, the two of them had fallen into a weirdly stable rhythm that was somehow completely different than anything they'd had before, but not fundamentally different from the brotherly playfulness that had defined their interaction during childhood. Reese had somehow managed to work his way up to a supervisor position at a nearby waste treatment facility, and based on the few times Malcolm had visited him on the job, he was actually surprisingly good at it. Malcolm himself was working as a personal assistant to the governor, getting a head start on his seemingly unavoidable political career. It wasn't a job he particularly enjoyed, but he _was_ learning how to play the game and put on a good front. Which would doubtlessly be useful skills if he ever fulfilled Lois's dream for him to become President someday.

Somewhere in the midst of these new changes, the boys had grown almost completely comfortable with the sexual and, indeed, romantic nature of their relationship. The secrecy and caution, of course, remained of utmost importance, since even Reese knew fully well how thoroughly they would be fucked if anyone else caught on. But they had the support of Dewey, who had long since abandoned his initial squeamishness, and since their social lives were contained mostly to water-cooler talk in the workplace (and occasional contact-establishing brunches with politicians for Malcolm), the two of them were able to exist openly within the confines of their own home. It was almost normal; by their standards, anyway.

In fact, during one weekend visit, Dewey actually remarked with a surprising note of jealousy that the two of them actually came across like a real married couple when they weren't hiding behind their public masks.

Neither Malcolm nor Reese was sure exactly how to take that, but even as he reached over to flick Dewey's ear, Reese had a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth and a light blush rising in his cheeks. And Malcolm felt a warm, happy sensation in the pit of his stomach; something he was feeling less and less as time went on.

Since that hot Sunday afternoon all those years ago, he and Reese had not spoken about Francis a single time. Sure, he came up occasionally in family gathering settings, usually in the context of one of Hal's tearful reminiscences, but the abuse was never brought up verbally, and Francis's name was never uttered in Malcolm and Reese's home. It was an unspoken agreement of sorts.

Every once in a while, when Malcolm took the dominant role during sex, Reese would have flashbacks and go into panic mode, and Malcolm would have to cradle him until he calmed down and fell asleep. But those episodes became more and more infrequent as the years passed, and they would never talk about it the next day.

For the longest time, Malcolm simply assumed that Reese was unable to remember the good in their older brother, and as a result had decided to just pretend he never existed. But he was proven incorrect one day when he spotted a charge for a bouquet of flowers on the monthly bill.

"Hey, Reese?" he called, putting down the paper and calculator.

Reese popped his around the corner, hair still wet from his morning shower. "Yeah?"

Malcolm pointed at the bill. "Did you charge some flowers to the card?"

"Oh," Reese grimaced, almost unnoticeably. "Sorry, man. I forgot to tell you about that."

"No, no, it's cool," Malcolm said cheerfully, turning back to the table. "Just wanted to make sure it wasn't a mistake. What were they for, anyway?"

"I took them to the cemetery," he responded quietly. Malcolm frowned slightly, then, getting it, looked back up in surprise. Reese shrugged. "It was the anniversary of...you know."

Malcolm nodded. "Yeah, yeah..." He swallowed. Cleared his throat. "So, umm, how many times have you gone?"

"Every year since," Reese said nonchalantly, and ducked back out of sight to continue dressing.

And that was it. They didn't continue the conversation later that night, opting instead for Chinese take-out and a scary movie. But it proved something that Malcolm had suspected for some time: that no matter how solid his relationship with his brother was, there would always be that dividing wall. That shared secret that bound the two of them together.

And there was also, as desperately as Malcolm tried to forget it, the uncomfortable truth that Reese still didn't know the whole story. He knew what Malcolm had done to protect their family, but not why. Up until Francis's unexpected demise, Reese had been under the impression that their brother had truly changed his life around and was trying to make amends.

Indeed, weirdly enough, that probably ate at Malcolm more than the murder: the guilt of having covered up that last rape to prevent Reese from backsliding and losing all of the progress he'd made in therapy. Although his chest grew constricted and a small dark weight remained in his heart, on an intellectual level, Malcolm didn't regret killing his brother. Not for a second. He remained adamant in his belief that he'd done the right thing (if only because he couldn't live with himself if he believed otherwise). But whenever the past floated into the forefront of his thoughts, the decision to not tell Reese why he'd done it seemed more and more like a bad idea.

Placing himself in his brother's shoes, Malcolm couldn't imagine how torturous it was to go through every day sharing in the complicity of a terrible crime without even knowing the reason it had been committed. But Malcolm was afraid; afraid to come clean after all this time, unsure of whether Reese would be able to forgive him. His instincts of self-preservation and need for some form of stability overrode his shame, and so the situation remained unaddressed on a spoken level. It hung in the air, heavier some days than other, but always present, lurking in the shadows with the rest of the secrets and lies and pain and deceit.

And the threat of punishment.

Malcolm considered himself a true empiricist, a man of science and rationality and logic, above the foolishness of superstition and fear. But, for whatever reason, perhaps due to years of conditioning to firm-handed "right vs. wrong" parenting, he found himself looking over his shoulder every now and then, wondering if he'd truly gotten away with it all. Most days, it certainly seemed so. The police had been quick to determine that Francis's death was an accident, and the family had no reason to suspect anything was amiss. But the past haunted Malcolm, in the fullness of the day and in the ominous gloom of the night.

He still went to that place sometimes, in the darkest of his dreams: the decimated apartment, blackened walls peeling apart at the seams, smoke and ash billowing out of empty picture frames. The room's nightmare occupant ever-silent, leering at Malcolm judgmentally beneath charred and rotten eyelids.

Malcolm would awake in a sweat, shivering, and Reese would somehow sense it, waking as well and pulling his brother against his chest; a sign of comfort and deepest love. _Does __he __know?_ Malcolm would think, eyes closed tight as he tried to slip back into unconsciousness with his cheek nestled against Reese's bare skin. _Does __he __know __what __I __see __in __my __dreams?_

* * *

><p>As it turned out, retribution did indeed come to shatter their lives without warning, but it was not, as Malcolm had feared in his feverish dreams, in the form of divine justice, but in the form of Eric Hanson, Francis's military school buddy.<p>

Malcolm didn't recognize him at first, both because he looked considerably older than he had in the pictures Francis had shown him and because he looked remarkably out of place standing in the middle of the governor's waiting room.

"Do you have an appointment?" Malcolm asked politely, not wanting to say anything in case it wasn't actually Eric.

But it was, and he looked at Malcolm curiously, as though he looked out of place. "Are you?..." he started hesitantly.

Malcolm grinned. "Francis's brother? Yes I am."

Eric grinned back and reached out to shake his hand. "Right, right. I thought I recognized you. It's Malcolm, correct? Francis showed me a picture of you when we were in school together." His grin faded, replaced by a solemn, respectful expression. "I was very sorry to hear about his passing. I liked to think we were pretty close."

Malcolm nodded appreciatively. "Thanks for the sentiment." He glanced at the door to the office and back at Eric questioningly. "So, you do have an appointment, yes?"

"Oh, yeah." Eric fumbled around in his coat pocket for a minute and pulled out a letter. "The company I'm working with now called him and set up a meeting. They sent me as their representative." He beamed proudly.

Malcolm smiled placatingly and buzzed the governor.

"_What is it?"_

"Eric Hanson here to see you, sir."

"_Who?__"_

Malcolm rolled his eyes. "Your 11:30, sir." There was a brief pause, then a quick order to send him in. Malcolm nodded to Eric. "Go ahead."

"Thanks, man." He paused with his hand on the doorknob. "You know," he said, "we should have lunch or something. If that's okay, I mean."

Malcolm nodded, slightly surprised. "Oh, uh, sure. I'm on break in an hour, so we can go across the street then."

Eric grinned. "Perfect," he replied, then disappeared through the door.

A little over an hour later, Malcolm was sitting with his hand in his lap, staring politely across a booth while Eric chowed down on a big sandwich.

"You sure you don't want anything?" he asked through a mouthful of turkey. "On me."

Malcolm shook his head. "No, thanks though." He glanced at the clock on the wall behind Eric's head. It was broken. Suppressing the urge to groan, he instead leaned forward and plastered a fake smile on his face. "So, was there anything you wanted to talk about in particular?" he asked. Eric didn't answer right away, looking down at his plate and chewing slowly. At first, Malcolm assumed he was just swallowing his bite before talking, but it quickly became apparent that he was stalling for time. And then Malcolm began to feel an ice cold chill rising in his chest; an ominous sensation of dread he hadn't felt sense a conversation with Piama in the family kitchen during that last Thanksgiving break together. His fists clenched in his lap, a cold sweat begin to form on his brow. He wiped it away and took a deep breath. "Eric?" he said softly, trying to keep his voice steady.

Eric looked up reluctantly, a pained expression on his face. "I just..." he started. Paused.

"What?" Malcolm encouraged. "What is it?"

Eric sighed, glancing away. "Look, I don't know if I'm doing the right thing by telling you this. I don't have any proof to back up my story, and Francis...Francis isn't coming back, so there isn't really any reason to tell you if you don't already know..."

The icy grip on Malcolm's heart squeezed tighter.

_Here it is. It's finally coming back._

"Know what?" he whispered.

Hearing the sound of his tone, Eric looked back at him sharply, surprise written across his face. They stared at each other questioningly, both afraid to lay their cards on the table before the other.

Finally, Eric spoke. "About two weeks before he died," he began, "Francis came to visit me." He paused again, biting his lip.

"Go on," Malcolm said stoically.

"He...damn it...Look, I'm just going to come right out and say it, okay? He told me that he...he told me that he was abusing your brother. Reese." He looked at Malcolm somewhat nervously. "...but I'm starting to get the impression that you already knew about that. Didn't you?"

Malcolm nodded. "Reese told me," he responded.

"When?"

"Several months before Francis died."

Malcolm wasn't entirely sure why he was being so honest. Maybe it was due to a repressed desire to confess his crimes. Or perhaps he simply doubted his own ability to tell a convincing lie at this particular moment in time. Either way, Eric was eying him with a truly uncomfortable stare, and Malcolm was beginning to feel the wheels in his head spinning, plotting his next move.

"Okay," Eric said, fidgeting awkwardly. He opened his mouth, then snapped it shut, looking as though he was rethinking something.

Malcolm's eyebrows narrowed. "Is there something else?" he asked.

Eric looked deep into his eyes, like he was trying to see into Malcolm's soul. "Maybe..." he murmured, lost in thought. "It's probably nothing, but..." - he sighed again - "...yeah, it's probably nothing. Francis told me he'd been, you know...that he'd done what he did recently, and that he'd done it before. He was a wreck."

"I'm sure," Malcolm interjected coldly.

_Where the hell is this going?_

Eric held up his palms defensively. "Look, I'm not trying to defend him or anything. I was disgusted when he told me. I was horrified."

"But not horrified enough to report him?"

Eric looked down at his plate again, ashamed. "I should have said something," he admitted. "I should have said something _sooner_, I mean."

Malcolm's stomach clenched tighter. He leaned forward further. "What do you mean? You told someone about this? You reported it after he died?"

Eric shook his head. "No, no. I just meant that I should have said something right away. He just seemed so desperate and ashamed of himself that...I don't know, I guess I thought he was trying to change. So I wasn't sure whether I should tell someone or who I should tell. And I thought about it...for too long, obviously. Now it doesn't really matter anymore." He trailed off, then added, "Almost."

Malcolm cocked his head. "Almost?"

"Well that's what's been bugging me. What I really wanted to talk to you about." He glanced around the diner nervously, as though someone could be listening in on their conversation. "I was debating whether I should say anything because it's just a suspicion. I have no proof of anything."

"What are you talking about?" Malcolm muttered through gritted teeth.

Eric bit his lip and took a deep breath. "It's just that...Francis came and spoke to me about this. And then he died two weeks later...in an explosion..." He looked at Malcolm meaningfully.

Malcolm's throat felt dry. "And?" he whispered hoarsely. "What are you saying?"

"I'm not _saying_ anything," Eric murmured, taking a sip of water. "I'm just suggesting that it's a little strange is all." He shrugged, waving his hand aimlessly. "And from what I've heard, your brother has had...uh...violent tendencies. In the past. That's all."

His heart now pounding in his ears, Malcolm put on his best exasperated frown. "You can't be serious."

Eric shrugged again. "Like I said, I'm not _saying_ anything. I'm just pointing out that it's a little strange."

Malcolm clasped his hands together and dug the fingernails into his palms to keep from screaming out loud. He smiled patronizingly. "Listen," he said calmly. "This is _Reese_ we're talking about. You two haven't met, so that probably doesn't mean much to you. But whatever Francis told you about my brother's 'violent tendencies,' I can promise you that his 'idiot tendencies' are tenfold. Don't get me wrong, he's my blood and I love him, but he's not the sharpest tool in the shed, if you catch my drift. There's no fucking way that he'd be able to pull something like that off without anyone finding out, and on top of that, be able to keep it secret for all these years. You don't know him, but take my word for that. He's not smart enough."

His words seemed to register, as Eric nodded slowly, frowning as he processed this information.

Encouraged, Malcolm continued. "More importantly, Reese would never do anything like that. No matter what Francis did to him. Besides, why are you bringing this up now? It's been years since all of this went down. If you thought something was fishy, why wait until now to say anything?"

Malcolm felt a surge of elation at the look of self-doubt on Eric's face.

_I've got him._

Eric kept nodding. "You're right," he said heavily, rubbing his eyes. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bring it all back. I just...I know it's all very far-fetched and unbelievable. They're just doubts and questions and weird ideas that crossed my mind in the past few years when I've thought back on the whole fucked up situation. The only reason I brought it up was because...well, I saw you in that office today, and I just couldn't _not_ say anything, you know? It wouldn't have felt right."

Malcolm smiled understandingly. "It's okay, man. No harm done. I know you were just trying to do right by my family."

Eric smiled back and took another sip of water.

The conversation flowed smoothly after that, and Malcolm could feel himself slowly relaxing as the minutes ticked by. They shot the breeze about their careers, and plans for the future, and drama with family. It was actually a relatively nice chat.

And it didn't get shot to hell until right at the very end, when they were standing up to leave and Malcolm was finishing a childhood story about Reese breaking his leg jumping off a roof onto a mattress.

"So your brother isn't the smartest guy in the world, eh?" Eric said with a grin.

Malcolm chuckled. "You could say that. But don't think he's an idiot or anything, he just isn't book smart and doesn't have a huge reservoir of common sense. He's sensitive though, and he can be clever when he put his mind to it."

"Yeah, I got you," Eric said genially. "He's just doesn't have the big IQ like y-."

And time seemed to freeze right then and there. The instant Malcolm heard Eric stop at the end of his sentence, he knew it was over. He turned his head to see Eric frozen stiff, a smile still plastered on his face, but his eyes looked vacant. Malcolm knew he was putting all of the pieces together in his mind.

_Fuck._

Time unfroze and they gathered up their things as though nothing was wrong, poker face smiles still intact.

They shook hands at the door and said goodbye, and Malcolm had enough self-restraint to not look over his shoulder as he walked down the street. But he didn't hesitate to make a left towards the general store instead of walking to his car. The animal within him had awoken, and there was no time for second guessing. There could could be no loose ends. This needed to be dealt with immediately.

He grabbed a pair of black gloves off the shelf and paid for them with cash.

On to the next stop.

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><p><strong>AN: And that's Chapter 1. You can probably tell the direction this is going, and that bad things are going to happen. Stay tuned, and I shall update within a week!<strong>


	2. Electroshock

Dewey was coming to visit for the weekend, so Malcolm wouldn't be able to make a move until after he and Reese were asleep. Never mind; he could wait.

When he got home, Reese was in the kitchen turning knobs on the oven and stirring some sweet smelling liquid in a big pot.

Malcolm smiled and gave him a hug from behind. "What's that?" he mumbled sleepily into the back of Reese's neck.

Reese turned and kissed him on the cheek in greeting. "Just something new I'm trying out," he said with a grin. "Dewey just called, by the way. He said he'd be here in ten; had to stop at the store for something."

Malcolm nodded, plopping down into a chair with a sigh. He rubbed his eyes "So how was your day?" he yawned. "You were already gone when I woke up this morning."

Reese shrugged. "Yeah, there was a leak at the plant, so I had to go in early. For no reason, I might add. That's the worst part of this job."

"Cleaning up messes?"

"No, _that__'__s_ fun. I like that. I'm good at that. It's watching other people clean up messes that sucks. They just want someone to go in and stand there with a clipboard and nod approvingly for hours on end until the damn thing gets fixed. And no one's even watching, so there's no purpose for it."

Malcolm chuckled. "The joys of being a supervisor, eh?" Reese snorted, shaking his head. Malcolm tried to look sympathetic, but ended up grinning instead. "Look, I'm working for a government official, so you don't have to tell me about useless work. Any high-end job in any system is going to involve a lot of appearance-tailoring. It just comes with the territory. There's nothing we can do about it, so we might as well enjoy getting paid for easy bullshit." Reese made a soft noise of discontent, tasting the soupy substance in the pot with a ladle. "What? Didn't turn out well?"

Reese smirked. "Please, it's perfect. I was reacting to what you just said."

"What about it?"

"That we get paid good money to pretend to do important work." He frowned, looking for the oven mitts in the cabinet above the stove. "Doesn't that seem, you know, a little weird to you?"

Malcolm frowned as well, propping his chin up under his arm, blinking at his brother. "I don't know. Yeah, I guess so, sort of. Well, not really. I mean, I knew what I was getting myself into from the beginning. Once I started watching the news as a kid, I figured out that most of it's just putting on a show."

Reese reached into the oven, poking at whatever the hell was in there. "And it doesn't bother you?" he inquired.

"Not really," Malcolm replied, thinking it over. "Maybe a little bit, but I'm so used to it, that it doesn't really get under my skin anymore. That's just the way the world works. The working man does all the heavy lifting, and the people in charge take the credit and keep up appearances. It sucks, but that's how it is right now." He shrugged. "But I guess there's some consolation in knowing that it can't stay that way forever, you know? Things will eventually get better."

Reese paused, giving him a weird look. "But..." he hesitated. "But if the people in charge don't do any real work and they're the ones who make decisions, how are things going to change? Won't they just keep doing what they're doing the way they've always done it?"

That stumped Malcolm. One would think that by now he'd be used to Reese blindsiding him with moments of clarity and intelligence, but it still seemed foreign to him. He just couldn't quite shake the vision of his brother as the blockhead schoolyard bully he'd once been.

And truth be told, that part of Reese had faded into obscurity a long time ago. Part of it was age; contrary to popular belief, most unruly kids outgrow their viciousness as they mature, and Reese was no exception. And being able to semi-openly expressed his attraction to Malcolm had done wonders for his stress levels. Time had been kind to him; he was more handsome than ever, and while he would never match his brothers in test scores, he'd blossomed into a rather thoughtful, intuitive young man. And while Malcolm was just as surprised as the rest of the family how well Reese had turned out, he was happy with the results.

What he wasn't so comfortable with was the unattractive reality that much of Reese's newfound maturity was probably due to Francis's influence. That trauma had opened doors into his brother's soul that otherwise would most likely have remained tightly bolted forever. Reese was a new man, unrecognizable to those who were tortured by him during their school days. He was changed, and for the better. Malcolm tended to be more science-minded, but being an introspective person, his thoughts would drift to philosophy from time to time. And much of his pondering lead inevitably to the frightening implication that the abuse had been good for Reese. He didn't want to believe that was the case, but there wasn't a great deal of evidence to the contrary.

And he had to believe it to justify his own actions, both past and present.

* * *

><p>Dewey arrived as Reese was finishing up with dinner, letting himself in with the spare key Malcolm had given him. He dropped his backpack by the door and jerked his head upward as a half-hearted greeting.<p>

"Tired?" Malcolm asked with a raised eyebrow, looking up from the newspaper.

Dewey rolled his eyes. "You have no idea."

"Want to talk about it?" Reese asked, setting a delicious-smelling plate of charbroiled beef on the table.

"No, there'll be plenty of time for that later. Right now I just want to forget about my idiot teachers and have a fun weekend with my big brothers," Dewey replied, allowing himself to grin. Malcolm rose from his chair to give him a hug. "How've you two been?"

"Really great, actually," Malcolm said, mostly truthfully. Up until a few hours ago, his life had been as stable as it had ever been. "A few complaints relating to work, but nothing unusual there."

"Oh? You or him?" Dewey asked, glancing at Reese, who muttered darkly.

Malcolm grinned. "He had to go in early to supervise a clean up."

Dewey hissed. "Oooo..." The two of them chuckled, and Reese glared.

"It's not funny, assholes."

"Okay, okay." Dewey shrugged and dropped the subject.

The evening went well. Reese's cooking was predictably exquisite, though he refused to tell them the name of the dish because he was "still working on the recipe." Dewey regaled them with stories about idiot-savants in the music program at his school, and Malcolm shared some inside dirt that he'd heard around the office. They pulled out some deck chairs, an old white bedsheet, and Hal's old projector he'd given them as a housewarming gift several years back, and watched a movie out on the balcony with a bottle of wine. ("Don't you dare tell Mom and Dad," Malcolm warned, much to Dewey's exasperation.) The picture quality was a little fuzzy, and Reese had to tighten the close pins holding up the sheet at least three times, but it hardly mattered; it was an experience of brotherly bonding and a hark back to a more innocent time in the boys lives when things were less complicated and they could sit outside talking the night away without a care in the world.

Around 11:30, Reese was too drunk to keep his eyes open (he'd put on more muscle since adolescence, but was still the leanest of the brothers, and by far the biggest lightweight). Wobbling to the door, he leaned down to give Malcolm a sloppy kiss and smiled against his cheek.

"Come to bed soon," he whispered loudly, eliciting a soft grunt from Dewey and a snort from Malcolm. Then he tottered off back into the apartment.

Dewey cocked his head, listening to make sure Reese didn't crash into something, then sighed heavily. He looked at Malcolm meaningfully. "I swear to God, if I hear you two tonight..." he muttered, taking a swig from the bottle.

"Don't worry, he's all talk when he's drunk. He'll be passed out in five minutes. Nothing's happening tonight." He snatched the bottle out of Dewey's hand, popping the cork back in. "And you've had enough of that."

Dewey waved his hand dismissively, burping silently into his sleeve. "Whatever. You could have had some if you wanted to." His eyes rolled back for a moment, then he squinted thoughtfully. "Does it...does it ever get to you?" he slurred drunkenly, motioning between Malcolm and the door.

Malcolm frowned. "What, that we're brothers? I thought you got past that part of it."

"No, no," Dewey shook his head. "Not that. I meant the fact that you can't be open about it. Doesn't the secrecy get to you?"

Malcolm's lip quirked up in a rueful smile. "Once you start lying about important things, it gets pretty easy after a while." He popped the bottle open and took a small sip, then closed it again. "I suppose we probably would have told you eventually, if you hadn't already figured it out by yourself. But telling Mom and Dad? That's never been part of the plan."

Dewey nodded slowly, processing this. "What about...what about Francis?" he asked quietly.

"No," Malcolm said after a moment. "We probably wouldn't have told him." He shrugged, wrapping his jacket tighter around his shoulders. "He wouldn't have had the freak out reaction I'd expect from our parents, but still, I doubt he'd have taken it very well."

"Probably not," Dewey agreed, reclining back in his chair to look at the stars. He stuck his tongue out, licking a drop of alcohol off the corner of his mouth. He groaned. "Ugh...I think I had a little too much."

"You and Reese both," Malcolm sighed. He got out of his chair and reached under his little brother's armpits, dragging him to his feet. "Come on. I'll help you inside." They stumbled into the spare bedroom, where Malcolm deposited him onto the queen-size mattress. Dewey mumbled sleepily, and Malcolm leaned down to kiss his forehead. "Goodnight, you little shit."

"Night, you big gay fuck," Dewey retorted, and was snoring ten seconds later.

Malcolm shut the door quietly and stood alone in the darkness of the apartment. He took a deep breath.

_Time to get to work._

* * *

><p>Malcolm found it genuinely astonishing how easy it was to track down Eric. The old lady at the Hall of Records barely even looked at his government employee badge when he went to look up the address. Hell, he was even able to look at blueprints for the house and take notes without even having to sign his name anywhere.<p>

He parked the car at an abandoned gas station a mile away from the residence, and gathered up his tools in a duffel bag, heading out into the woods donned in black. He arrived at the house around 12:30 in the morning, and looked around cautiously, crouching behind a tree in the backyard. The lights were all out except for a dim glow coming from the living room; most likely a lamp. Looking at his tiny sketchpad, he located the shed where the fuse box was kept. Keeping an eye on the window, he cut the wires with a pair of rusty garden shears hanging on the wall.

There was a small pop inside the house as the electricity cut off and Malcolm thought he heard a muffled noise of surprise. He needed to move quickly; if Eric caught on and used his cell phone, then he was fucked.

Pulling on a ski mask, Malcolm glanced hastily at his notes again and pocketed them, slipping around to the side door. Pressing his ear against it as he picked the lock, he heard soft rustling around inside. There was movement, but it wasn't panicked.

_Good. He's not suspicious._

Malcolm felt his heart pounding in his chest. Adrenaline was pumping through his veins, and he willed himself to channel the thrill and fear into concentrated energy. Now was not the time to mess up.

The lock clicked softly, and Malcolm tip-toed inside. The door creaked; not loudly, but it creaked.

_Shit._

The rustling in the other room stopped. Malcolm could imagine Eric standing in the darkness of his living room with his ear cocked, listening for the source of the noise. He stood dead silent, listening with all his might for the slightest sound.

After what seemed like an eternity, the motion picked up again, and Malcolm let out a soft sigh as the noise faded in the opposite direction. His relief was short lived, however, because a few seconds later he could hear the soft clapping of flip-flops moving quickly up the stairs.

Malcolm remembered very, very vividly that Eric had been in _military_ school with Francis, and probably had a gun up there somewhere. Slipping off his shoes, Malcolm crept swiftly into the empty living room in his socks. Setting the duffel bag cautiously on the coffee table, he pulled out a hypodermic needle and filled it with sedative. Tucking it gently in his front pocket, he pulled out a taser and moved into the foyer.

The house was pitch-dark now. The only light coming in was shining dimly through the window by the door. Malcolm pressed himself flush against the wall, peeking up the stairs. No one in sight. He could hear Eric fumbling around with something upstairs. His chest clenched.

_A gun? A bat? A cell phone?_

He made his way stealthily up the flight of steps, a straight shoot to the upstairs hallway. At the top, he sank to his knees and, after the briefest hesitation, snuck a peek around the corner. His heart stopped for a moment as a flash of light illuminated the room ahead, but he quickly recognized that it was just a flashlight. Eric shut the drawer to his desk, muttering to himself.

Malcolm ducked back behind the wall, getting the taser ready. His hands trembled slightly, and he clenched them tight to keep steady.

He heard Eric's flip-flops clapping towards him, the beam of the flashlight shining through the doorway...

...and then they stopped. There was an electricity in the air, quite tangible and palpable. Malcolm could practically sense Eric's doubt, could very nearly see the wheels spinning in his mind.

He heard Eric backing away, and then the flashlight clicked off. The hairs on the back of Malcolm's neck stood up, and, as quickly and quietly as he could, he retreated down the stairs. There was some more rustling from above, and looking around, Malcolm decided to simply duck behind a chair, crouching in the shadows and hidden from view.

There was bumping from upstairs, sounds he couldn't quite make out. Beneath his gloves, his palms were starting to sweat.

About two minutes later, there were footsteps on the stairs. No flip-flops this time. Malcolm tensed up, pulling himself into a tighter ball as though it would make him more invisible.

His fears were confirmed when the barrel of a shotgun poked around the corner. Eric appeared in silhouette, aiming the weapon expertly, scanning the living room. After sweeping the area two times, he paused and crept in closer towards the coffee table. Malcolm felt his stomach backflip. He chanced a glance around the chair, hoping beyond hope that the ski mask was camouflaging his face well enough. Eric was leaning over the table, staring at the duffel bag.

_Shit. Now or never._

Malcolm had never had the advantage of physical strength. Francis and Reese had always been the heavy lifters, the family's muscle men. He and Dewey were the intellectuals; they worked out from time to time and had a decent muscle mass, but had no intention of starting any fights. No, what Malcolm had was cunning. Quick thinking and the element of surprise.

There was no way he'd beat Eric in a full out brawl, so he had to make it count.

In a single, fluid motion, he rolled out from behind the chair as soon as he saw Eric's grip relax on the firearm. Eric's head turned sharply at the noise, but before he could react, Malcolm had propelled his body towards him and was jabbing the taser into the small of his back.

Eric let out a short, strangled yelp, dropping the shotgun to the floor. His torso arched backwards into the electric shock, and he fell with a resounding thump. Malcolm grunted in pain as Eric's back crushed his hand to the floor, but his body reacted for him, and he yanked the needle out of his shirt pocket with his free hand and jabbed it into the side of Eric's neck.

The drug worked almost instantaneously. Eric gasped, eyes going wide before rolling back. His body continued to spasm for a few seconds from the taser's jolt, then he went limp as he passed out.

Malcolm pulled his hand out from under Eric, and rolled over on the floor, breathing rapidly.

_Oh my God..._

He took a minute or two to steady himself before continuing about his business. He searched Eric's pockets for his cell phone. Not there. Glancing at his notepad again, he located the door to the basement and, throwing the duffel bag over his shoulder, he dragged the unconscious body down the stairs, making absolute sure not to bump his head on the way down.

He lay out a tarp on the ground and lay Eric down, tightly handcuffing his wrist to a thick water heater pipe nearby and shaking it to make sure it held firm. He stood up and surveyed his work.

_Alright...almost home..._

* * *

><p><strong>AN: And that's Chapter 2. Sorry to leave you on a cliffhanger, but I felt that the next part deserved to be a chapter of its own, so I split it up. I shall update soon! Thanks to you readers. Your support is appreciated.<strong>


	3. The Needle, the Waffles, and the Shotgun

**AN: Not an easy chapter to write, but vital to the story. Enjoy.**

* * *

><p>Drowsiness, shifting in between various states of consciousness, twisting madly in the velveteen darkness of almost-dreams, restless sleep broken to pieces by whispered words sharp as a razor's edge.<p>

"Wake up."

His eyes fluttered open.

He coughed.

Drenched in sweat and sore all over, he looked around in the darkness, panic bubbling up inside his chest.

"Who's there?" he croaked out, coughing again. His eyes started to adjust to the dark, and he squinted, noticing something in front of him. His heart skipped a beat as he took in the shadowy figure sitting in a rocking chair six or seven feet away, donned in black attire, complete with a ski mask. A shotgun laid out across his lap. _His_ shotgun. Eric tried to move, but found his wrist stuck to the water heater. He scooted backwards, pressing himself up against the wall. "Who's there?" he repeated, more demandingly this time.

A soft sigh from beneath the mask sent shivers down his spine.

"You already know."

The voice was weary, both from physical exhaustion and something else that Eric couldn't quite define. He recognized its owner immediately, but pretended not to.

"No I don't," he replied defiantly, forcing his heartbeat to slow down to a normal pace. "Take off the mask."

Another sigh, slightly annoyed this time.

"Stop being moronic. You put away your flashlight, Eric. You came downstairs with a gun and stood framed in the light from the window to try and find me. The only reason you would do something so stupid was if you knew that the person you were hunting was someone who wouldn't try to come after you with a gun. And the only person fitting that description who would be sneaking around your house under these circumstances is me. I put the pieces together in less than ten seconds, so stop trying to bullshit me. It'll save us both some time." A brief pause. "And while I'd love to take this fucking itchy mask off, I'd rather not leave any hair fibers around. Even in your basement."

Eric sat up straighter, swallowing hard. "Okay then. I know who you are." He grimaced as he shifted to sit cross-legged. He looked at the masked figure, vaguely in the direction where the eyeholes probably were. "So what now? Why am I still...here?"

Malcolm picked up the shotgun, and Eric tensed up for a moment, only to relax when he set it down on the floor and moved closer to squat a few feet closer. He was at Eric's face level now, and Eric thought he could see the glimmering of his eyes beneath the dark folds of cotton.

"We have to talk about some things first."

"First? Implying there will be more later?"

Yet another sigh, impatient. "Look, it's 1:30 A.M. We've got time, but not that much time. So stop asking dumb questions. I know you're worried, but I have no reason to hurt you. If you answer everything I ask you and try to...you know, try to work with me here...then we'll both come out of this okay. Okay?"

Eric's body wanted to believe those words, his heart rate back to normal, the sweating ceased. But he couldn't obliterate all the doubts in his mind.

"Why should I believe a word you're saying?" he replied, feeling a little anger beneath the fear. "You killed your own brother, so why would you hesitate to kill me?"

"That's different," Malcolm cut in sharply, and Eric felt a cold chill at the harshness of his tone. "He was sexually abusing Reese. You haven't done anything but fuck around in the wrong people's business. I did what I did because I had no other choice. I have a choice here, and I'm not going to kill an innocent man just because it's convenient. I'm not a sadist."

Eric drew in a sharp breath, thinking carefully. It was possible Malcolm was lying. He _was_a genius after all. He could just be playing him to get what he wanted, and still kill him when it was over. But, truth be told, there wasn't really any reason to assume that. For all Eric knew, Malcolm was just a sweet kid who had gotten in way over his head while trying to protect his brother.

Besides, it wasn't like he had much of a choice but to answer the questions.

"Okay," Eric said, nodding slowly. "What do you want to know?"

"First things first, where is your cell phone? It wasn't on you when I shocked you, and I couldn't find it in your room. I need to check it to make sure you didn't call anyone."

"It's broken; in the top drawer next to the microwave in the kitchen. I've been using the landline for the past few days. It won't turn on, but you can give it a go...besides, if I'd called the cops, they would have already gotten here by now."

Malcolm nodded. "Noted. I'm just being thorough. Okay next, where," - he pointed at the shotgun - "does that belong? I looked for a lockbox or something in your closet, but I didn't find anything."

Eric grunted, scratching the side of his nose with his free hand. "Yeah, about that...uh...this is actually a little bit embarrassing...um, it's not mine. Well, it is, but it's not officially mine. It's not registered."

The black mask cocked to the left slightly, as though surprised. "Seriously? You went to military school and you couldn't get a registered gun?"

"Hey, I dropped out, in case Francis didn't tell you that," Eric muttered grumpily. "And I was never in the actual army. So that's irrelevant. And it's not that I couldn't get one, I just...I didn't...the store's price was a bit out of my budget, and I wanted something around the house in case of home invasion."

Malcolm snorted in amusement. "A lot of good that did," he replied dryly.

"Yeah, well...yeah."

Dropping the subject, Malcolm pressed further. "Did you call anyone earlier in the day?" he inquired. "Or talk to anyone? Ask any questions relating to our conversation?"

Eric shook his head. "No." He let out a short bark, a bitter laughing noise. "I made the same mistake as last time. I decided to think before I took any action."

Malcolm grilled him for about ten minutes, making sure all the loose ends were tied up, making certain none of the night's events could be traced back to him. Satisfied, he leaned back, swaying a bit in his crouching position. Unsure of what else to say, they let the silence hang in the air, an uncomfortable barrier between them.

Eric felt nervous again. "So," he started cautiously after a few minutes. "Is that it?"

Malcolm paused, then peeled back the ski mask to reveal his face. Eric was startled by how drastically different he seemed from their last conversation: the polite smile was gone, replaced by a cold, hard, world-weary slab of stone. His face looked strained, like it could barely contain the flood of emotions built up beneath the surface. And Eric was certain he had never seen a pair of eyes that looked so tired in his entire life.

"Eric," Malcolm said, deadly serious. "You understand why I had to do it, right? If you and Francis were as close, like you said, then I'm sure he spent hours on end bitching to you about our family. Especially our mother."

Eric nodded, not entirely sure where this was going. "Yeah. He did."

"Well it's not just her. It's our father, too. And Piama. And Dewey. I don't mean that either of them are like her, but neither of them could handle the truth. They could never, _can_ never know the truth about Francis." He leaned forward pleadingly. "There's no reason they should have to suffer any more. They've already had to deal with what happened to Reese and Francis's death. It's taken years to work through. Reese still isn't whole, and I'm not sure that he ever will be. If nothing else, I know for sure that he'll never be the same." To Eric's surprise, Malcolm actually started tearing up a little. "Look, I'm not going to be able to pull some solution out of my ass just because I'm smart. There's really only two options here: either I kill you, or I trust you to understand that Francis wasn't going to stop what he was doing and everyone is better off letting sleeping dogs lie." He swallowed. "To be honest with you, I prefer the latter option."

Eric stared at him, not believing his luck. _I __might __actually __get __out __of __this..._

"You just...let me go? And that's it?"

"That's it," Malcolm agreed wearily. "We both walk away from this and never come in contact again. After you're finished with whatever business you've got going on with my boss, that is." His gaze was so intense, Eric felt as though he was trying to read his mind. "But I need to make sure we're on the same page...Are we?" Eric stared at the floor, thoughts swirling around in his brain. "Are we?" Malcolm repeated anxiously.

Eric looked up. "I work with the Department of Water and Energy," he said tonelessly. Malcolm frowned quizzically, but didn't say anything. "I'm a rep. It's a boring job, or at least it has been for nearly the whole time I've been working there. Up until recently" He fidgeted at the handcuffs binding him to the pipe, staring at Malcolm all the while. "There's a huge case going on right now. Some farmers have filed a lawsuit against us. Something about contamination in the water supply, and cutting corners, and a big cover-up, blah, blah, blah. You get the idea. Anyway, my job for the past year and a half has not been the general salesman schtick I'm usually put up to. Instead, nearly everything I've been doing has revolved around talking to various bigwigs and listening to them lie, and reporting back to other bigwigs who also lie. And the recurring theme here is that I'm supposed to 'let sleeping dogs lie.' I'm not supposed to get involved or ask too many questions. Even with your boss. From what I can gather, he knew about the whole mess, and maybe even helped facilitate it. And I got the same shit from him that I've been getting from everyone else. The same damn message: 'Listen to me lie, accept it as truth, and don't raise hell about it.' The same damn message..."

Still frowning, Malcolm shook his head, confused. "Why are you telling me all of this?" he asked stoically. "What's your point?"

Eric sighed deeply. "My point is that I've 'let sleeping dogs lie' for people who deserve it far less than you. And your brother did a horrible thing. Maybe even an unforgivable thing. I don't know." He rubbed his eyes tiredly. "Either way, I don't think it's any of my business to poke around in it anymore." He looked at Malcolm and nodded curtly. "I'lll walk away. Just like you say."

Malcolm looked immensely relieved. He bobbed his head enthusiastically. "That's good. That's great. I'm so glad to hear you say that." And he looked like he meant it. He looked over his shoulder at the duffel bag in the corner. He smiled at Eric. "Let me get the key to those handcuffs."

That should have been the moment. It would have been perfect for them both. Because Eric had been sincere in his agreement to stay silent. And Malcolm had been equally sincere in his decision to let him go. All of their problems would have, if not necessarily evaporated, then at least become tolerable. The ghosts in the deep may have haunted them for the rest of their days, but their lives would have remained intact in whatever fucked-up rhythm they had established over the past few years.

But it was not to be.

Because Eric had to open his mouth. He had to try and make an extra effort to buy the freedom he'd already earned. And it cost him.

"You know I'm sorry," he called quietly, while Malcolm searched the bag for the key.

"What for?" Malcolm asked distractedly.

"For not reporting Francis to the police. Or at least saying something to your parents." He shook his head sadly. "But I want you to know that it weighed on me. All those months of knowing what he'd done. It really tortured me."

For the briefest moment, Eric could have sworn he saw Malcolm freeze up, his shoulders tensing up. And then it was over, and he was still rummaging in the bag, a blank expression on his face.

After a minute or so, he shuffled back over to Eric, looking into his eyes with that empty stare. He gestured towards the pipe. "Turn your hand so I can get at the lock."

Eric obliged, twisting his arm around.

Malcolm leaned forward, placing one hand on Eric's wrist and bringing the other with what looked like the key towards the lock. He paused.

"What is it?" Eric asked, not sensing the danger.

Nothing for a beat or two. And then..."Months?"

Eric frowned. "Huh?"

Malcolm's stone, cold expression was back. Still staring at the lock, he repeated himself. "You said it weighed on you for months."

It took about a half a second for Eric to recognize his mistake. His eyes grew wide and his breathing hitched.

Apparently that was all the confirmation Malcolm needed because the next thing Eric knew, the needle was piercing his neck, and the world went dark.

* * *

><p>It was vengeance, plain and simple. It was very sobering in that way; Francis may have been his brother, but he'd backed Malcolm up into a corner. The killing was a preventative measure, a measure of protection for Reese. This...was not that.<p>

He'd deserved it. That's what Malcolm kept telling himself while he cleaned up everything. He'd fucking deserved it. He'd been the first one to know, the first one to find out. He'd known what was going on before even Malcolm did. He'd known practically the whole time it was going on. And he'd done nothing. He hadn't said a word. Just kept quiet and looked the other way while Francis molested a child.

So he'd deserved it. He was a loose end, and he was guilty, and he felt sorrier for himself and the "suffering" he had to endure by knowing than he did for Reese and his pain. It was only fair.

There wasn't any torture, though. Malcolm took care of it while the poor guy was still zonked out. Fairly simple, just a quick overdose of the sedative. That's all it took. He tensed in his sleep for a second, then went limp. Heart stopped.

Weirdly, it would probably look believable. Malcolm had heard some pretty wild overdose stories from the Chief of Police during some of his career-boosting luncheons. Sure it wasn't heroin or morphine or anything like that, but it wasn't uncommon for people to turn up dead pumped full of some weird shit they'd stolen from pharmacies or hospitals or whatever. The holes in the neck might raise a couple of eyebrows, but knowing full well how little attention the cops paid to these sorts of situations, Malcolm wasn't too worried. Once they found six bottles of the stuff in Eric's refrigerator, they'd most likely consider it an open and shut case.

It took him another hour or so to set the room to his liking, gathering up all of his stuff, positioning the body just right, making absolutely certain that he wasn't leaving anything behind.

Mask back over his face, Malcolm stood at the top of the staircase, looking down into the basement. It was an eerie scene: Eric's body twisted on the tarp by the water heater, a hypodermic needle in one hand an a small bottle in the other. It wasn't perfect, but it was good enough.

On his way out, he stopped by the shed to rewire the fuse box, then trekked back through the woods to his car.

He stopped at a 24-hour store to pick up a new pair of clothes, and after changing in the dimly lit bathroom, dropped the old black ones out in a dumpster around the corner.

The sun was beginning to peak out from behind the hills when Malcolm finally got back to the apartment. He tiptoed through the living room quietly, and peeked his head into the bedroom. Reese was already awake, sitting up with the pillow propped behind his back, watching what sounded like a National Geographic special. His eyes lit up when he saw Malcolm.

"Hey," he said.

Malcolm smiled back. "Hey, yourself. What're you doing up so early?"

Reese stretched, yawning. "I woke up twenty minutes ago to puke." He grinned sheepishly. "I guess I had a little too much last night. But I feel better now." He pointed mock-accusingly at his brother. "And I could ask you the same question? Where're you sneaking off to at the crack of dawn on a Saturday?"

Malcolm produced a couple of grocery bags from behind the doorway. "I thought we'd make a real breakfast, since Dewey's over."

Reese snorted, patting the bed beckoningly. "By 'we' you mean 'me,' right?"

Malcolm curled up next to him on the bed, stroking his cheek affectionately. "You're the chef. And it's just stuff for waffles."

He leaned in for a kiss, but Reese put a finger up to his lips. "I threw up, remember?"

Malcolm shrugged, moving further down to attach himself to Reese's neck. "Did you brush your teeth?" he asked between kisses.

"Not yet. I wasn't sure if it was all out or not," Reese murmured, arching his back slightly.

"Well...have you been able to determine that since?" Malcolm inquired, looking up seductively.

Reese rolled his eyes. "Yeah it's all gone."

Malcolm kissed his cheek softly. "Then go brush them now," he whispered in his ear.

"Later," Reese whispered back, smirking.

Malcolm ran his hand through his brother's hair, looking deeply into his eyes. "You know I love you more than anything, right?" he asked quietly.

For the longest time, even a couple of years ago, Reese would probably have come back with a snarky comment about Malcolm being a big girl or acting overly mushy. But he wasn't that guy anymore. He was more mature, less insecure about his emotions. And there was something in Malcolm's voice that made the question sound less like a gooey sentiment than a tiny plea for affirmation of love. So Reese's brow crinkled and he smiled back, brushing a lock of Malcolm's hair back over his ear.

"Yeah, I know," he said sincerely. "I love you too."

* * *

><p>Outside in the crisp, cool air, Malcolm's car sat parked beside a patch of grass, dripping with morning dew. In the trunk of the car there was a black duffel bag, and in the bag there was an unregistered, completely untraceable shotgun.<p>

Just in case.

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><p><strong>AN: And that's Chapter 3. It might seem like the story's conflict is over before it ever really got started, but I promise there is much more to come. It's not over, not by a long shot. Updates to come!<strong>


	4. Mi Familia

**AN: I should note, just to avoid confusion, that in the universe of this story (and "Between Brothers," too, obviously), Lois did not have any more children after Dewey. My reasoning behind this is that she would not have wanted any more after what happened to Francis. That, and I wanted to keep the story focused on characters that were already given personalities in the series. So that's that, and here's Chapter 4:**

* * *

><p>Memory imaging.<p>

The mental process of visual recall. The sensation of re-knowing something previously experienced.

Malcolm was perhaps more familiar with this feeling than deja vu; it was something that had affected him especially strongly in the last years of adolescence. Every room in the Wilkerson house brought back a flood of memories in a tidal wave that threatened to overwhelm him.

The kitchen: all those meals together, both good and bad; sitting in a row while Lois chewed them out for their latest prank gone wrong; watching Hal and Lois stress over bills at the table, all the while listening to Francis bitch about school over the phone; Reese's ever-evolving cooking style.

The bedroom: the late-night whispered schemes in the dark; working with Stevie on science projects by lamplight; trying to navigate the maze of toys and books and empty boxes of food strewn all over the floor.

The bathroom: ...Reese.

Dewey was back in school, getting ready for some piano recital ("Don't come," he said threateningly, waving a finger in their faces, "It's stupid and embarrassing and, you know, just don't come"), and Malcolm and Reese were visiting back the family.

Every time they returned to that place, Malcolm thought he was ready for it, but the memories always hit him hard.

It had been two weeks since Eric's death. Someone had found him a couple of days after the fact and reported it to the police. And it went pretty much the way Malcolm had expected, although, nevertheless, he was immensely relieved to see that it was simply mentioned in the obituaries instead of splayed all over the front cover of the newspaper.

Years of trying and failing to hide his fuck-ups from Lois had taught him the value of planning ahead. He wasn't a teenager anymore; there were no second chances. If he got caught, he was caught and that was the end of it.

So he started planning right away. Every minute of the day, the cogs were working furiously in his mind, piecing together bits of information he could use to his advantage. It wasn't a process he particularly enjoyed because the more pieces he assembled, the more courses of action he ruled out, the clearer it became that there was only one foolproof option. It was risky as hell and it would cost him dearly, and knowing himself, he was sure he would put it off until he had no other choice, but nevertheless, the scheme continued to stew in the back of his brain, waiting to be put to use.

These visits home were growing more and more infrequent as Lois reluctantly relinquished her control over her sons, accepting that they were living their own lives now. Major holidays and a few extra weekends in the summer was all they could count on.

But Malcolm had grown to realize that he was dead wrong in thinking that fewer trips to his childhood home would make it easier to bear. If anything, the extended period in between made it all the more painful when he had to return. It wasn't so much his parents; Lois was genuinely as strong as she seemed, and even Hal had been able to move on after Francis once enough time had passed.

It was Piama.

Lois had welcomed her into the home, and it never really occurred to anyone for her to move out. Almost a decade later, and she had become a part of the family in way she never was while Francis had been alive. Malcolm knew she and Francis hadn't been married that long, and even now it was questionable how "real" (whatever that meant) their marriage had been. But it didn't stop the knife from twisting at his heart whenever he and Reese pulled up in the driveway, and she ran out to greet them with a friendly smile and a hug. It killed him every time.

* * *

><p><em>When the truth is found to be lies<em>

_And all the joys within you dies_

_Don't you want somebody to love_

_Don't you need somebody to love_

_Wouldn't you love somebody to love_

_You better find somebody to love..._

Malcolm awoke to the sound of the radio. He rolled out of bed and went to find the source of the noise.

It was coming from the kitchen. Piama was listening to music while she washed the dishes, a ray of early afternoon light illuminating her face through the window. Malcolm felt a sharp pang seeing her there, but pushed it aside.

"Jefferson Airplane fan?"

She turned to smile at him. "Hey there, sleepy head." She turned over to turn the knob down slightly. "Sorry if I woke you up."

He waved a dismissive hand. "Nah, I should have been up earlier anyway."

She grinned, putting a stack of clean plates back in the cabinet. "Yeah, I'm a big fan. Francis and I had all their albums at the old place." She got a faraway look in her eye, but kept smiling. "Never got around to recollecting them, but I still like the band. Your brother was probably an even bigger fan than me."

"Yeah?" Malcolm poured himself a glass of milk, looking at her interestedly.

Piama nodded. "Yep. He was really into that 60s hippie sound. I guess it appealed to his rebellious nature."

He chuckled. "You're probably right."

This was comfortable; at least on a surface level. There was a level of openness he was able to reach in everyday conversation with Piama that he could never have with Hal or Lois. She didn't get choked up about the past and was unafraid to discuss anything. She was a real pistol, which Malcolm admired.

Of course it still hurt like hell to look at her, to know that she was only this strong because he'd forced her to be. He'd made her this way through his actions, whether she knew it or not.

_Tears are running, they're all running down your breast_

_And your friends baby, they treat you like a guest..._

He looked absentmindedly at the radio, watching the little speakers vibrate with the bass line. "So where's everyone at?"

Piama rolled her eyes. "Your mother's still at work, and your father took Reese out for some, how do you put it, 'bonding time.'"

"So they went drinking?" Malcolm asked dryly with a sardonic smile.

"Let's just say they'll probably show up in a taxi, and then you and I will have to go pick up the car," she sighed.

"Did you at least get the name of the bar before they left?"

She paused in the middle of drying a dish. "Shit," she muttered.

Malcolm snorted. "It's fine," he said, amused. "I can narrow it down to two or three places. Or we could always ask the cab driver where he picked them up."

Piama sat down in the nearest chair, and reached over to ruffle his hair affectionately. "I know I've said this before, but I really miss having you around the house."

"Oh? Because I'm such a stimulating conversationalist, is that it?"

She fake-kicked him under the table. "Because you're the normal one. As far as this family goes, I mean."

He raised an eyebrow. "Aren't you and Mom getting along well nowadays?"

She shrugged. "We get along fine. But there's no way in hell you can consider her normal."

"One could make a case that there's no way in hell you could consider me normal either."

"Fair enough," she said, yawning tiredly. "Maybe normal was the wrong word." She grinned at him conspiratorially. "But you can't deny we have a sort of kinship."

Malcolm's lip quirked up. "Yeah, I know what you mean."

Piama patted his hand. "You're my buddy. My comrade, you know? I love the rest of them because they took me in and cared for me, and because we're all stuck together and we don't give up on each other. But you and I are friends as well as family. That's the difference."

He felt that pain in his heart again. "Yeah," he said softly. "You and me."

He squeezed her hand, and she returned the gesture. They sat there in silence for a little while, listening to the announcer on the radio introduce Elvis Costello.

* * *

><p>Malcolm went out to lunch with Reese later in the week. Lois was working late again, and Hal was working on some ridiculous project in the garage. Piama felt a little under the weather, so she said for them to go ahead without her.<p>

They picked a small Mexican restaurant near the grocery store. Cheap and uncrowded, but the food was delicious. They were the only ones in the place aside from a couple of bikers talking in low voices at the bar and a family of four seated near the front.

The waiter sat them at a booth in the corner and took their drink order quickly, running off as though he was having a busy night.

Reese smiled at Malcolm across the booth, picking up a menu. "So how's your week been?"

"Pretty good. It felt a little weird without Dewey here, but I guess we just saw him recently."

"Yeah." Reese grinned embarrassedly. "I forgot to thank you for picking us up the other day. We forgot about having to drive home."

Malcolm smirked. "You always forget."

Reese kicked him gently. "Oh, please. I'm no more of an alcoholic than you are."

"Maybe so, but you _are_ the bigger lightweight," Malcolm pointed out. He looked over the appetizers. "Want to get queso dip with the chips?"

"Sure, but I want guacamole, too." He frowned. "And it's not my fault I'm thin. I have a crazy fast metabolism."

"Hey, it was an observation, not a complaint. Saves us a bundle on liquor costs." He tapped the menu, showing it to Reese. "Which size of guacamole? The big bowl or the small?"

Reese rubbed his chin, thinking. "Just the small. I want it on the side." A thought occurring to him, he patted his pockets and retrieved his wallet. "I only have like 5 bucks on me, dude. Do you have some cash?"

Malcolm frowned, examining his own wallet. "Yeah, I've got enough. What happened to your money? Did you forget to go to the ATM yesterday?"

Reese shrugged. "I don't know." He snapped his fingers. "Oh wait, wait...yeah. I paid for the groceries yesterday when I went with Mom. She said she'd pay me back, but I guess she forgot."

"Yeah, alright. That's cool."

The meal was good, but Malcolm hardly even noticed. The flow of the conversation, while mostly about surface level topics, was deeply familiar and beautiful in its rhythm. It enveloped him like a warm blanket of security, and for a short hour out of his life, he was able to forget his troubles and simply exist peacefully in a warm cocoon with the person he loved most in the world.

* * *

><p>"Are you sure you can't stay a little longer?" Lois asked, hugging Malcolm tightly.<p>

He tapped her back. "Mom, I can't breathe," he said teasingly. Pulling away, he added, "I really wish we could, but I've got work tomorrow, and Reese has to stand with a clipboard for eight hours."

Reese punched him in the shoulder. "Whatever, asshole."

"Language!" Lois reprimanded sternly, but with a twinkle in her eye. She surveyed the two of them, pride evident in her expression. "Well, don't wait too long before you come and visit again," she said, voice wobbling a little.

Malcolm and Reese exchanged glances, and Reese went to hug her as well. "We won't," he said, rubbing her back soothingly. "Promise."

Buckling up in the car, they looked at each other again. Malcolm raised an eyebrow. "Huh..."

Reese nodded, the corners of his lip turning up. "I know, right? She's never been like that before."

Malcolm shook his head, bewildered. "Maybe she's losing it."

"Maybe it's menopause."

Malcolm made a face, pulling the car into drive.

* * *

><p>24 hours later, and it was back to the grindstone. Reese worked the 9 to 5 shift, and Malcolm was stressed out running between various meetings and filling out paperwork that the Governor was too busy to look at. And in the few free minutes he had during the day, he went down to the Hall of Records to try and find evidence for Eric's claims about his boss.<p>

As it turned out, the paper trail was thin and hardly noticeable to anyone not looking closely, but it was there. The pieces all led back to the executive office. Again, Malcolm was amazed, not only by how easy it was as a government employee to dig up all sorts of dirt on high level politicians, but by how lazily the cover up had been handled. It was as though the man wanted to be caught.

Malcolm wasn't, on the other hand, at all surprised that his boss was responsible for something heinous. Even if he wasn't already a cynic by nature, he would still pegged this sleaze-bag for the scoundrel he was.

So the evidence was there, Malcolm had access to it, and he all he had to do was make a few phone calls and set up a meeting to put his plan into action. And yet, he hesitated. The proof could still be stronger. If a trade was to be made, he was going to need a little more dirt. Just to be on the safe side.

More importantly, there was a choice to be made here, and a risky one at that. If he waited too long, the past would eventually catch up with him, whether in a matter of days or years he did not know. And then all of his sins would be laid bare for all to see, and all would be for naught. But if he went ahead with this course of action...

...it was not a decision to be made lightly. It was a matter of selling one's soul for freedom, and he could not possibly know whether it would be worth it or not until he'd crossed the point of no return.

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><p><strong>AN: A slightly shorter chapter, but I like it. I like writing the sweeter moments in between the darker parts. More to come later. Thanks for reading.<strong>


	5. God and Ecstasy

**AN: Not the longest chapter, but one of my favorites to write because it gives some deeper insight into the nature of Malcolm and Reese's relationship in this story.**

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><p>Malcolm was not a religious man; more by circumstance than by principle, but nevertheless, spirituality did not factor heavily into his day-to-day decision making.<p>

Lois had never made the family go to church or synagogue or anything of the sort. When Malcolm had asked her about it as a child, she'd simply said that she wanted him to "do good things because they're the right thing to do, not because you feel bullied into it." He hadn't really understood that then, but reflecting on it later, the reasoning seemed sound to him, and he hadn't thought about it much since.

Hal and Lois seemed somewhat at odds on matters of faith and reason, a fact that showed in their parenting styles, and one which confused Malcolm for a while when he was younger. Hal was more inclined towards the "do unto others as you would have them do to you" approach, with the disclaimer that bad things would probably happen to you if you weren't nice. Lois focused on defiance and a relentless pursuit of the truth, even and especially at the risk of disrespecting authority (which, ironically, gave birth to Francis's rebellious attitude in adolescence). The one thing they seemed to agree on was that you could never count on anyone except family, and you had to be able to stand on your own two feet.

At first, Malcolm had found the contrast off-putting, but in time, he'd grown to appreciate it. He felt it gave him a broader perspective on life.

But, as aforementioned, his own introspective delving into the realm of God and eternity and all of those questions was fairly limited. He preferred science. Science he was comfortable with, science made sense. It was rational, logical, orderly. It worked as a description of the physical world, and as an explanation for how things got to be the way they were.

Questions beyond that, mysteries relating to philosophy, were more difficult. Sure, they held the same level of interest, and he had been eager to learn more once Herkabe had started making them read Kant and Kierkegaard. But they weren't as easy. He couldn't come to a conclusion with the same degree of certainty and confidence, and that bothered him.

He remembered visiting a Catholic church once to ask a priest a few questions about truth and justice, and God and the afterlife, and what have you. It hadn't been a particularly enlightening experience. The old fuck had basically delivered a long-winded, symbolism-laden version of Hal's "be nice, respect your elders" speech. The one thing he took away from it was the man's repeated assurance that if Malcolm accepted Jesus as his Lord and Savior, he would be rewarded with eternal life in the presence of God after death.

That struck Malcolm as odd. He recalled thinking _That__'__s __it?_ as he walked out of the priest's office. _That__'__s __all __it __takes? __Just __believing __that __one __thing?_

It puzzled him even further at school, seeing the weird contrast of kindhearted, thoughtful kids and nasty, selfish bullies; both of whom claimed to believe the same thing: Jesus. Some of the teachers were even nastier. Malcolm wondered if it was worth going to heaven if it meant having to live with a bunch of self-righteous assholes forever.

He didn't so much consciously reject the idea of the divine, being turned off of militant atheism by sanctimonious pricks like Herkabe, but after enough time had gone by, the God in him simply evaporated. Disappeared like an afterthought in the midst of other, more urgent questions.

Nowadays, if he thought about God at all, it was usually in the context of crime and punishment, and the great question of ultimate justice and fate. Malcolm had long since finished grieving for Francis and had mostly dealt with all of the guilt surrounding those circumstances, but he was mildly unnerved by how infrequently Eric entered his thoughts. He felt no regret for killing someone who, apart from one serious lapse in judgment, hadn't really done anything too awful. So Malcolm pondered, for the first time in years, the notion of divine retribution, and wondered why, if indeed God did exist, was he able to get away with such horrible crimes? Did God's mercy rain down indiscriminately upon the just and the wicked alike? How could that be fair? How could that be true?

Not that he minded, or that he really expected to get into any sort of Judeo-Christian heaven. That possibility was pretty much out of the picture once he and Reese had started fucking (and breaking Lord-knows-how-many commandments in the process).

But, skeptical of all things supernatural as he was, Malcolm couldn't help but feel somewhat amazed at the ease with which he was able to pull off astonishing acts of depravity. And that disturbed him more than the murders themselves.

So religion wasn't his strong point. And God wasn't the center of his universe.

Reese was.

Reese was the altar at which he worshipped.

The thought made him laugh out loud, even in the heat of the moment.

"What?" Reese asked nervously, looking panicked for a moment. "What's wrong?"

Malcolm smiled and leaned down to press a loving kiss against his forehead. "Nothing," he whispered. "I was just thinking that I sort of worship you."

Reese rolled his eyes, but his cheeks turned bright red and his body tensed beneath his brother's touch. He would never stop denying it, but Malcolm knew Reese was a sucker for hyperbolic compliments like that. Especially when the hyperbole happened to be true.

"Shut up," Reese muttered, trying to hide his smile.

Malcolm grinned. "Okay." He captured Reese's lips in a passionate kiss, thrusting his hips forward simultaneously for additional effect.

Reese groaned into his mouth. "Jesus," he mumbled, pulling away to breathe.

"Not quite, but it's got a nice ring, so you can call me that if you like," Malcolm replied innocently.

"Oh, don't make me gag," Reese laughed, running his hands over Malcolm's back.

Malcolm cocked an eyebrow. "Alright," he said softly, eyes raking over his brother's body. "Spread your legs. I want to fuck you."

Reese's eyes glistened, and he obeyed wordlessly, chest moving up and down rapidly. Malcolm positioned himself intentionally slowly, just to tease, then turned to Reese for the go ahead. Reese nodded impatiently.

"Just do it, don't torture me!"

"As you wish," Malcolm replied, and pushed in.

Ah. It was _this_. This was what he fought to protect.

It wasn't even the sex, though to be sure, that was a bonus. It wasn't the sensual pleasure derived from intercourse. Malcolm knew, as a man of science and logic, that was all wiring and chemicals and bursts of matter. What he wanted, what he craved, what he couldn't live without for even a day was this closeness, the tangible physicality of the greatest love he'd ever known. He'd experimented, as kids do, within the bounds of childhood sexuality. He'd looked at pornography and made out with girls behind the school.

But it had always been Reese. From the outset, there hadn't been another option. It was inevitable, and Malcolm occasionally wondered how poorly off he would have been had Reese not returned the sentiment.

But he did return it, and then some. If anything, Reese's need for him was even stronger than his for Reese. It was wild and destructive and dangerous and (still) exciting.

Malcolm suspected that the overwhelming sensation of ecstasy he experienced during these deeply intimate, private moments with his brother were probably somewhat akin to the fervor and rapture some people experienced in spiritual service.

He'd seen it before. Once, the Governor had made him go in his stead to a meeting with the pastor of a large black church. The meal was good and the man was nice, so Malcolm accepted his offer to attend a service. He'd been to church before, but had never experienced anything quite like that before: people rolling in the aisles, singing joyously along with every song, shouting _Amens!_ of agreement during the impassioned sermon. It was so exuberant, it was almost amusing, but at the same time, Malcolm felt a measure of respect, even awe, for the genuineness of the people's joy. Definitely a refreshing change of pace from the usual dull droning of self-satisfied church-goers.

But none of it compared to this. This was what kept him going, this was why he lived.

Because of Reese. Because of the boy he'd grown up with, the boy who'd been strong for Malcolm in his darkest hours, who'd constantly surprised him with unexpected depth of character and compassion at all the right times. Because of the man he'd become, the man who had proved them all wrong and made something of himself. Made something of himself as a human being, as a person of conscience.

He everything Malcolm wanted. And everything he wished he could be. Because the smarts weren't enough. All the intelligence in the world had never made him happy; if anything, it had made him more miserable. It was that spark of humanity that counted. That was what mattered. And it shone brighter in Reese than it ever would in him. And it was a testament to his love that he felt no jealousy, no need to take away that precious gift. No, what Malcolm wanted more than anything in the world, more even than his own happiness, was to keep that goodness alive in his brother.

As long as that spark survived, then he could be at peace.

Malcolm looked down into Reese's eyes and felt his heart ache in his chest, his flesh burning with the heat of the friction, and he began to feel a deep sorrow inside his soul, knowing that the moment couldn't last, and then it was ending and the release was bittersweet and only the visual confirmation of his brother's shared ecstasy made the climax worthwhile, and then it was over and he was collapsing on top of Reese, breathing heavily against his sticky chest and absentmindedly trailing kisses across the living skin.

They lay there in the afterglow, breathing deeply in the thick, musky air. Malcolm twisted his head to look at Reese's face, illuminated by soft rays of light shining through the cracks in the blinds. Reese smiled, wrapping an arm lazily around his back.

"I love you," Malcolm said with a grin.

Reese nodded matter-of-factly. "I can tell. I'll be sore for the rest of the week."

Malcolm grinned wider, a cocky expression making its way onto his face. "You'd better."

Reese pulled him into an embrace, and they lay in the peaceful quiet as it began to grow dark outside.

_This is what it's all for. It's worth it for this._

His cheek against Reese's chest, Malcolm gazed at the closed window, watching the light fade.

_It's coming._

_I'm ready._

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><p><strong>AN: And there you go. In writing this chapter, I tried to put myself inside Malcolm's mind and imagine the sort of things he would possibly think about if he were in a situation like this. So that's where this all came from. Anyway, thanks for reading, and more to come soon!<strong>


	6. Brotherhood

**AN: Sorry it took slightly longer to upload this one. I initially wrote an entirely different chapter, but hated it and decided to start over from scratch. I like the end result a lot better, so I think it was a good call.**

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><p>The projector whirred behind their heads, images on the screen flickering and sputtering in and out of existence.<p>

Dewey leaned forward in his seat anxiously. "Come _on_," he pleaded. "Come on...I don't want to have to sit through this abomination again..."

Malcolm snorted, taking a sip of his soda. "Dude, seriously, what the hell are we watching this for?"

Dewey turned to glower at him. "For the last time, it's for my Music in Film class. It's not my fault the teacher's an elitist ass-wipe who wants to torture us with garbage like this." He elbowed Malcolm in the side grumpily. "And you're not helping with your incessant commentary. I know it sucks, but just try enjoy spending time with me, alright?" He rubbed his eyes, annoyed. "This is why I always ask Reese to go to the movies."

"Hey, hey!" Malcolm chortled. "I don't know about you, but I'm having a great fucking time." He pointed at the screen as the picture came back into focus. "From what I can tell, the blonde one is in love with the brunette's brother, but she can't have him, and...I guess she's expressing her sadness through interpretive dance in a wheat field?"

Still rubbing his eyes, Dewey shook his head. "I have no fucking idea," he muttered tiredly. "I just want it to be over."

Malcolm flung an arm over his shoulders companionably. "Just 30 more minutes, little brother," he said cheerfully. Dewey shot him another glare, albeit a somewhat gentler one. "Look, I'll tell you what. How about we go bowling or something afterwards? To make up for, uh..." - he waved vaguely at the girl pirouetting on the screen - "..this?"

Little more than an hour later, and they were cheering each other on while rolling strikes and drinking beer and having a grand old time.

That was the way most of Malcolm and Dewey's one-on-one bonding experiences went: they started off shitty, escalated to a brief (usually inconsequential) outburst, then somehow became a lot of fun. There wasn't really any rhyme or reason to it. That was just the way their relationship functioned.

And Malcolm liked it that way. With Francis little more than a memory and Reese now firmly in the category of "lover" or "soulmate" instead of "sibling," it was nice to have someone to hang out with who truly exemplified the spirit of brotherhood. Not that he was unhappy with the direction his relationship with Reese had taken; on the contrary. But, in a weird way, he missed the sibling-esque feeling they'd once had. So he was grateful for Dewey.

"Nice roll," Malcolm said with a grin, taking a swig of beer.

Dewey smiled back cockily, sitting down to reties his shoelace. "I've been practicing. The school has a bowling team, and they let us use the lanes when they're not practicing."

"You have a _bowling_ team?" Malcolm asked disbelievingly. "Seriously?" Dewey shrugged. "I swear, you go to the weirdest university in the country."

"Uh, what have I been telling you all this time?" Dewey replied, amused. He took a sip of his own beer, nodding in satisfaction. "Thanks for this, Malcolm. It ended up being fun after all."

Malcolm raised an eyebrow. "You say that like it's a surprise," he said with a mock-offended tone.

Dewey rolled his eyes. "Easy now, don't be a wise-ass. You'll ruin the moment."

"Okay, okay."

Dewey gestured at the scoreboard. "Your roll."

Malcolm set his drink down and got up for his turn. "So how are things going?" he asked, eye trained on the pins. "Other than classes, I mean. Like how's your social life? Friends?" He knocked down all of the pins except one. "Damn it..."

"Do you not remember our childhood at all?" Dewey asked, amused, but with a note of bitterness. "I talk to a few people on a regular basis, but only because we have classes together. And I get along with my roommate, but we don't really hang out or anything." He shrugged, getting up for his turn after Malcolm knocked down the last pin on his second roll. "Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining; I like my privacy. But I don't really have any friends that I care about."

Malcolm sat down, looking at the back of his brother's head sympathetically. When Dewey got a strike and came back to the table, Malcolm reached over and patted his shoulder encouragingly. "Hey now," he said gently. "There's nothing wrong with that. Reese and I don't even have friends that we _don__'__t_care about."

Dewey gave him an odd look. "Yeah," he replied quietly. "But you do have each other."

Malcolm frowned. "Yeah, well...that's different." He bit his lip, looking Dewey over. "I mean...do you want what he and I have? Or...you know? What is it you're saying?"

Not meeting his eye, Dewey gave an involuntary shrugging motion. "Just forget it."

"No." Malcolm shook his head. "Come on, man. Telling me what's wrong."

Dewey hesitated for a beat, then lifted his head, looking very uncomfortable. "It's just that..." He paused.

Malcolm nodded. "Go on."

Dewey took a deep breath. "It's just that I've always been the odd one out. You know? I'm the baby of the family, and even though we never really had any friends because...because, well...we kind of suck..." Malcolm snorted. Dewey smiled sadly. "But even in spite of that, we always had each other..." - he took another deep breath - "...until you and Reese...you know?"

Surprised, Malcolm leaned back in his chair, eyes lighting up with understanding. "Oh."

"Don't get me wrong," Dewey added hastily, "I'm happy for you guys. I really am. Once I saw how great you were together, I stopped feeling weird about the 'being brothers' thing. But..." he frowned, choosing his words carefully. "But, I was jealous. Not of the _nature_ of your relationship, but of the exclusiveness of it." He looked up at Malcolm. "Does that make sense?"

Malcolm nodded. "I think so. You feel like an outsider because we have that...extra bond, in addition to being brothers."

"Yeah, exactly. And that's all I ever had: that bond with you guys. Mom and Dad never really parented me in the same way as you two." He looked down, embarrassed. "And Francis," he added as an afterthought.

Malcolm frowned. "What do you mean? They parented you. I mean, God knows they weren't always good at it, but they disciplined you almost as much as the rest of us. And if it was a little less, than it was only because you didn't get into as much trouble."

Dewey looked at him like he was crazy. "Oh, please. I was just as much of a nightmare as you ever were." He gave a sly, sideways grin. "Maybe I didn't bitch as much as you, but I was never an easy kid to raise."

"Fair enough," Malcolm said, smiling back.

"Besides, I wasn't talking about discipline. I was talking about _parenting_. You know, showing up for events that were important to me, listening to me when I had confusing questions, encouraging me to do well in school. Shit like that."

Malcolm frowned again. "They didn't do any of that? Ever?"

Dewey shrugged. "Sure, sometimes. But they lavished attention on you. You were their golden boy, their meal ticket. You're the one with the big brain who's supposed to make a ton of money and then pay for their nursing home bills. And I'm sure you're aware of the countless hours they dedicated to keeping Reese from accidentally killing himself. Or someone else. And Francis...do I even need to-"

"No," Malcolm sighed, rubbing his forehead. "No you don't." He looked at his younger brother, feeling a weird ache in his chest. "Do you really feel like you don't belong?" he asked, trying to keep from sounding pitying.

Dewey bit his lip, looking down at the ground. He shook his head slowly. "No. Not really. I mean, sure, sometimes. But what kid doesn't, right?" He looked back up, trying to smile. "I love you guys, and I know you love me. We're having a great time right now...or, at least we were a few minutes ago. And I know Mom and Dad care about me, but I just...I sort of feel like they didn't bother giving me much attention because they knew I was good at music. Like, they figured I would do okay in life without any help." He sighed. "And they weren't totally wrong. I got that great scholarship, and even now, I'm getting all sorts of recommendations from teachers. But...I don't know, it's just that, sometimes, I did need that attention. I needed to feel like I was a more important part of the family than the way it seemed." He swallowed, and his eyes watered just a little bit. He let out a choky laugh. "Am I complaining too much? I feel stupid saying this kind of stuff when Reese actually had to go through...you know, real problems..."

Malcolm moved over to sit next to him and pulled him into a tight hug. "No," he said, stroking his hair comfortingly. "You're not complaining too much." Dewey didn't cry, but he melted into the embrace, allowing himself to feel that physical gesture of affirmation and love. They sat like that for a minute or two, ignoring the occasional stares of their fellow bowlers. After they finally pulled apart, Malcolm spoke again. "You do matter, Dewey. You're my brother, and you're an important part of this family, and I love you. And not just _because_ you're my brother." He looked down at the floor, thinking over how he wanted to phrase himself. "I can talk to you in a way I can't with anyone else," he said finally.

Dewey looked at him curiously. "What do you mean?"

"With Reese, he's not just my brother. He's my lover. _And_ my roommate," he added with a wry grin. "All of those things are tense enough for any couple, but this is Reese." He looked at Dewey meaningfully. "_Reese_."

Dewey snorted. "Yeah."

"God help me, I love him to death, but there are certain limitations to our communication. I don't say that to put him down, but you and I both know that he doesn't exactly...he isn't quite on the same intellectual wavelength. And that's fine!" he said warningly, as Dewey looked like he was going to laugh. "And it's not just a one way thing; I'm sure I have plenty of neurotic tendencies that he has to tip-toe around. That's just the way it is when you're in love with someone. You coddle them sometimes. You're overly careful because you're afraid you're going to fuck it up."

"Uh-huh." Dewey looked enraptured.

"Anyway," Malcolm continued, "I don't have to be that way with you. I can say what I'm thinking and you'll shoot straight with me, and I know I can trust you. And hopefully, you feel the same way."

There was a hint of a question in that last sentence, so Dewey responded. "Yeah, I do."

"Good." Malcolm looked relieved. He patted his little brother's knee. "Look, dude. I know I gave you a rough time when we were kids. Francis was hard on Reese (_More __than __you__'__ll __ever __know_, he thought), Reese was hard on me, and we were all hard on you. But we're older now. And, hopefully, more mature. And I want you to know you can count on me."

Dewey smiled at him gratefully. "Thanks, Malcolm," he said softly. "That means a lot to me."

Malcolm squeezed his shoulder affectionately, then wriggled his eyebrows. "So, speaking of relationships, and speaking of sex, have you...?"

Dewey punched him in the side. "Like I'd ever tell you!"

"Oh, come on! Why not?"

And, like that, the tension was broken. A further testament to the brotherhood between them: had that been a conversation with Reese, the solemnity would have lingered throughout the rest of the evening, but since it was Dewey, the lighthearted fun could start right up again. Bowling and brotherly bonding. Just another day in a long line of routine.

The hard times were yet to come.

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><p><strong>AN: I hope this story is interesting to you all. I wanted to try and create a sense that these characters occupy an entire world, instead of just existing in a vacuum. So that's why I spend so much time trying to develop the surroundingside character stories. Anyway, thanks for reading, hope you like it, and more to come soon!**


	7. Our Father

**AN: Lyrics used in this chapter are from the song "Bad Company"...by the band Bad Company...Alright, yeah. Here's the chapter:**

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><p>The shrill melodic ringing of Malcolm's cell phone cut through their peaceful slumber like a jackknife in the warm darkness of the bedroom.<p>

Reese jerked awake immediately, the back of his head bopping up against his brother's chin. Malcolm grunted, eyes fluttering blearily, his arms wrapping around Reese's chest tighter.

"Wh-? Who?" he mumbled sleepily, laying his head back down on the pillow and kissing the back of Reese's neck.

Reese, wide awake now, groaned in annoyance and stretched his arm over to the bedside table, grabbing blindly for the phone. Rolling over on his back and running a hand through his hair, he put the cell to his ear and clicked it on.

"Hello?" he asked, yawning.

"_Uh, __hello?__"_ the voice sounded confused. _"__Reese?__"_

Reese frowned and squinted at the phone. Realizing it was Malcolm's cell, he rolled his eyes and turned to his brother. Placing the phone against his chest, he whispered, "It's Dad," and then put it back to his ear. "Yeah, it's me, Dad. What's up?" Malcolm opened his eyes again, propping himself up with his elbow, listening intently.

"_Oh, uh...well, I was actually trying to reach your brother...I didn't wake you up, did I?"_

Reese glanced at the clock, which read 1:30 A.M. "Yeah, but it's okay. I went to bed pretty early, so no biggie." He yawned again. "Is everything okay?"

Even through his weary haze, Malcolm smiled at his brother remembering to use the word "I" instead of "we."

"_Umm, __yeah. __Yeah, __nothing__'__s __wrong, __I __just __needed __to __talk __to __your __brother_. _I__'__m __sorry __to __wake __you __up, __son...__"_

"Like I said, no biggie. Do you want me to get Malcolm for you? I guess he left his cell in my room."

"_Yeah, if he's awake, that would be great. Thanks, Reese, and again, sorry. Have a good night sleep, buddy."_

Reese grinned, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. "Thanks, Dad. I'll go get him." Groaning slightly, he tossed the covers off and stood to pace around the room loudly.

Malcolm chuckled, sitting up with the pillow propped behind his back. "Seriously?"

Reese shrugged, eyes flickering as he struggled to keep them open. He walked over to the wall and knocked a couple of times against it, holding the cell close. "Malcolm?" he asked, giving his brother a lopsided smile.

"Yes, Reese?" Malcolm replied, amused.

"Phone for you." Reese tossed the cell to him and trundled back to the bed. Plopping down heavily, he leaned over and whispered in Malcolm's ear. "Take it outside. I'm going back to bed."

Malcolm nodded, getting up and slipping out through the door. It was a pleasantly warm night, so despite wearing only boxer shorts, he went out on the balcony before speaking into the phone.

"Hey, Dad. Is everything okay?"

"_Yeah, I'm fine. It's fine. I mean, nothing's wrong. It's okay. Uh...yeah. Umm..."_

Malcolm snorted, cocking an eyebrow. "Really?"

A sigh over the phone. _"__Well, __sort __of. __There __really __isn__'__t __anything __wrong, __per __se...__"_

"Per se?"

"_Yeah, that's the thing...Is it alright if...I know it's late to be asking this, and I'm sorry, but is it alright if we had a...a...could we talk? It's important."_

Malcolm frowned, sitting down on one of the deck chairs and looking out at the full moon illuminating the quiet suburban stretch below. "Oh. Yeah, of course. What's on your mind?"

"_No, no. I mean in person."_

"Oh," Malcolm repeated, surprised. He pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a sudden headache coming on. "Oh, okay. Umm...well, do you want me to...I mean, when do you want to-"

"_I'm driving to meet you right now. Well, near you. I'll be in the city within 20 minutes or so."_

Malcolm's eyebrows shot up again. "What? That soon? How is that even possible?"

"_Well, I was out of town for a business meeting, and we were only an hour away from you guys...and I needed to talk with you, so I decided just to go...I probably should have called you first, shouldn't I?..."_

"No, that's, umm, that's fine. Are you coming to the apartment?" Malcolm asked, glancing at his watch.

"_No, I just want to talk with you. At first, at least. Umm...you know that shady place over on...uh, what's the...what's the name...I can't remember the street or the name of the place, but it was that restaurant Reese and I took you for your 21st birthday. You know, the one with the good bar?"_

Malcolm laughed silently at his father's rambling description. "Yeah, I remember. That's pretty close, do you want to meet there?"

"_Yes, let's do that. Like I said, I'm about 20 minutes away, so I'll be there shortly."_

"Okay, sounds good. I'll head out in just a sec. See you there."

"_Okay. Goodbye, son."_

"Bye, Dad."

Malcolm hung up the phone, and stared at the speaker, his brief amusement fading. There was no legitimate cause for him to believe this had anything to do with the various number of secrets he was juggling at the moment, but he'd always been prone to paranoia, and after Eric, his irrational fear was at an all-time high.

_Just calm down. There's no reason to think this is about Reese and me. There's no way he could know about it. We've been very careful. There's no way he could know about this..._

_(Or Francis...)_

Malcolm slid the glass door open quietly and crept back to the bedroom. The floorboards creaked, and Reese tilted his head towards the noise.

"Hmmm?" he mumbled, squinting.

Malcolm smiled at him, pulling on a pair of jeans. "Shh...go back to sleep."

"Okay..." he slurred. "...where are you going?"

"Just doing something for Dad," Malcolm replied, sticking his arms through the sleeves of a flannel shirt. "I won't be gone long." He went and leaned over the bed kissing Reese on the lips. "Sleep well. Love you."

"Mmmm...love you too," he muttered, closing his eyes and lying back down.

Malcolm watched him affectionately for a few seconds, then slipped out, grabbed a glass of water for his headache, then left to meet his father.

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><p>Hal arrived at the bar a few minutes after Malcolm, looking around anxiously and rubbing his hands together for warmth.<p>

"Over here, Dad," Malcolm called out, raising his shot glass to wave. Hal came over, and Malcolm stood to give him a hug. "You got here a little faster than I expected," he said, patting his father's back.

Hal gave him a forced smile. "Yeah, well I may have sped through a couple of lights, to tell you the truth." He nodded at the shot glass. "Drinks at two in the morning?"

Malcolm cocked an eyebrow. "Oh, like you're one to talk. We're up, and we're talking, and we're at a bar. So we might as well..." - he gestured at the wall of liquor - "..._talk_ at the bar. Right?"

Hal glanced between the drink and the bar a few times, then sighed, taking out his wallet. "Yeah, I guess that makes sense." To the bartender, "I'll have whatever he's having."

The bartender, a grumpy looking woman in her mid-30s with an afro, nodded dully. "One shot of Brain Hemorrhage cocktail coming up."

Malcolm snorted at Hal's reaction. "It's good," he said cheerfully. "It'll kick you in the teeth, though, so take it all in one."

Hal stared at the odd concoction in front of him. He turned to Malcolm. "Brain Hemorrhage cocktail?" he asked disbelievingly. "Why would you ever order something with a name like that? Whatever happened to just straight scotch? Or a margarita?"

"Just trust me for once, alright?" Malcolm said, laughing silently. "It's not as bad as it sounds. It's just peach schnapps and Irish cream with a dash of grenadine."

Hal looked at him doubtfully, but picked up the shot glass and, after a brief hesitation, downed it in one gulp. His eyes went wide, and he started coughing violently. "Oh, jeez...oh, man..." He slapped the counter loudly, causing the bartender to shoot them a disparaging glare. "Oh, lord...that hit the spot. I'll tell you what..."

Malcolm chuckled, motioning for the bartender. "Could we have a couple of glasses of water, please?" he asked sweetly. She grunted in response. An elderly gentleman over in the corner punched some buttons on the jukebox and the speakers started thrumming overhead as the guitars of Bad Company began to play.

_Company, always on the run_

_Destiny, oh, and the rising sun_

_I was born, six gun in my hand_

_Behind the gun, I make my final stand_

_That's why they call me_

_Bad company,_

_Oh, I can't deny..._

The bartender brought their waters over. Hal was still recovering from the cocktail. "Oh, man..." He shook his head, blinking furiously. "I'll tell you what..."

Malcolm shifted in his chair, turning to face his father head on. "Alright," he started bravely. "So what is it you need to talk about so badly?"

Hal grimaced, setting the glass down with a soft thud. "Well, son..." he said slowly, and Malcolm groaned internally, knowing he would have to coax his father into spitting it out. "Well, son...you see...there are times in a man's life when he...well, you see, there are a lot of confusing, you know, _things_...out there in, uh, the world, and...uh, you know? And I just, I...I...I don't quite, well, there are things. _Things_ on my mind that just...I've been wondering about some, well okay, not _wondering_ per se. More of just, I don't...uh, I don't...I have questions about, uh, you know?"

"Dad," Malcolm interjected, pinching the bridge of his nose, "I have no idea what the hell you're talking about."

"I know, I know!" Hal snapped. "Let me get my thoughts together...And watch your language..."

Malcolm grunted. "Okay."

Hal twiddled his thumbs, looking incredibly uncomfortable. He sighed heavily. "Look, I'm not good at the sort of thing, okay? I don't know how to start to...I don't know what to say."

"Well..." Malcolm scratched his chin, not meeting his father's eye. "Could you at least hint at what this is about, and maybe I can start for you?" Hal made a quiet, uncertain noise. "Or, maybe you could just...blurt it out? Just say it?"

Hal pinched his nose and shook his head. "No," he replied, sounding very tired indeed. "No, I have to do this the right way." He lifted his head to look at his son, his eyes filled with doubt and anxiety and all sorts of conflicting emotions. "There have been some questions," he started carefully, "on my mind lately. I've noticed some...I've seen some things that have raised questions, and I haven't had the courage to bring them up to you. At first, just because I thought I was being ridiculous and imagining things...and then because I was afraid I was right."

Malcolm closed his eyes briefly, his gut clenching up.

_So it's Reese and me. Of course._

Shifting in his chair, Hal continued. "I know I never really gave you kids a real...uh, well...we never really had 'the talk,' if you know what I mean."

"Yes," Malcolm said, burying his face in his hands. "I know what you mean."

"Well, I _did_ talk to you when you were younger, but it only lasted about three minutes, and I never really followed up on it."

_Time to get this moving. No need to prolong the inevitable._

"Dad, is that what you called me up at 1:30 in the morning to talk about? You want to give me the sex talk again?"

Hal couldn't look more uncomfortable if he tried. "Well, not...exactly." He twiddled his thumbs some more. "I want to talk about...well, you see...it's...well..."

_Oh, for God's sake..._

"Reese and I are together," Malcolm interjected bluntly. Had the circumstances been different, the look on Hal's face would have been extremely funny. His expression was a weird mixture of relief at not having to say it aloud himself and stupefied numbness at realizing his fears were true.

"Ah," he said in a high-pitched voice. He raised his hand. "Another one of those Brain Hemorrhage cocktails, please!" he called to the bartender.

Malcolm rolled his eyes. "Dad..."

"Just give me a minute, son," Hal replied shakily. "Daddy needs a little more liquor in him for this conversation." Knowing it was no use to argue with him once he started referring to himself in the third person, Malcolm sat quietly, waiting for his father to finish his shot. Hal drained it quickly and slapped it back on the counter again. "Good stuff, good stuff."

"Alright," Malcolm said impatiently. "Now let's talk about this."

Hal nodded grudgingly. "Yes, I guess we should." He rubbed sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand, and looked at Malcolm mournfully. "How...I mean, my God! How did this happen?" His eyes betrayed a desperate need to understand.

Malcolm shrugged, feeling very, very tired all of the sudden. Now that the cat was out of the bag, his anxiety had evaporated. "It just..._did_, Dad. He had feelings for me for a long time, and then I realized I felt the same way, and...you know. It just happened."

"You're...I mean, you're _brothers_, for Christ-sakes!"

"Do you really think that never occurred to us?" Malcolm asked grumpily. "Hell, even Reese knew it was socially unacceptable. He never even hinted at his feelings until I was fifteen."

Hal gaped at him, opening and closing his mouth like a fish. "Fi...fifteen? You two started...you started when you were fifteen?"

Malcolm nodded. "Yes." Catching the brief glimmer in his father's eye, he quickly added, "And don't think that we're confused. We've been together for almost a decade, so I think we've had plenty of time to figure out whether or not our feelings are real or not."

Hal's shoulders slumped. Looking defeated, he took a long swig of water. "Well...I guess that's that then. Isn't it?"

"What?" Malcolm looked up at him, startled. "That's it? You have nothing to say?"

"Do you want me to say more?" Hal asked, raising his eyebrows. Although it was clear he was still distressed, he seemed remarkably calm. "I don't think there's much more to add. You two are brothers, and you already know the problem there. You're both men, and some people will have issues with that as well. And your personalities are...not exactly in alignment, let's put it that way. But you've been together for years without getting caught, and I highly doubt there's anything I can say to make you stop." He sighed deeply, putting a rough hand on Malcolm's shoulder. "I still love you, son," he said seriously, genuinely. "I do. And I'm going to have to try and get over the strangeness of this whole thing. The only other thing I can think to say is...well, just be careful, okay?"

Malcolm felt a sudden rush of love for his father. He pulled him into a bone-crushing hug. "Thanks, Dad," he whispered.

Hal patted his back, and pulled away to take another drink of water. "You're welcome, buddy."

The sat in silence for a few minutes, listening to the soft sound of the jukebox. Suddenly, a thought occurred to Malcolm. He turned to Hal, frowning curiously. "How did you know, by the way?"

Hal thought for a minute. "Nothing in particular, to be honest. I remember earlier in the year when you two came to visit, there was this moment...at the end of the day, when you were about to go to bed. You went to hug him goodnight, and...I don't know, there was this weird moment where you two looked like you were about to...uh, you know...kiss. And then it was like you stopped right before, and just hugged each other instead. I honestly didn't think much of it at the time, other than that it was weird. But it stuck with me, for whatever reason, and I started noticing other things every time you came down to see us. Little things, always. But they added up in my mind, and I began to wonder..." He sighed. "It's amazing I even caught on at all. Apparently I've been missing the signs for years now, so I guess it was only a matter of time before I stopped being blind to the obvious."

Malcolm scowled. "Hey, I don't think we were _that_ obvious. Until now, no one ever caught us." He paused. "Except for Dewey," he admitted.

Hal glanced at him with mild surprise. "Dewey knows? For how long?"

"Pretty much the whole time," Malcolm said apologetically.

Hal registered this information, then shrugged nonchalantly. "I suppose that makes sense. "You three spent so much time together, after all. And he's a perceptive kid, that one."

Malcolm nodded in agreement. "Yes he is."

"Fifteen," Hal muttered. "Jesus..." He went to take another sip of water, then paused, wheels spinning in his head. "Fifteen," he murmured again, but in a totally different tone. He looked at Malcolm. "That was right around the time Reese..."

His stomach turning, Malcolm nodded jerkily. "Yeah," he said quietly. "Pretty soon after that."

They didn't talk for a little while after that.

They just sat together, alone at the bar.

Father and son.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: And that's Chapter 7. Still a ways to go, so stay tuned, readers!<strong>


	8. Duffel Bag

**AN: This chapter picks up pretty much right after the last one.**

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><p>It would have been nice, Reese thought to himself later, if Malcolm had given him a heads up on what to expect when he came to pick the two of them up.<p>

But no, all he got was another middle of the night phone call and a lot of slurred speech and laughter.

"What?" Reese groaned into the phone, looking at the clock.

5:00 A.M. God damn it.

There was a giggle on the other end. Then, _"__Reese? __Reeeeese?__"_

Reese frowned. "Malcolm? Are you...are you drunk?" Some more giggling on the line, and Reese thought he heard another voice in the background. "Uh, hello? Malcolm?"

"_Reese! __We__'__re, __ugh...__"_ - a hacking cough - _"__We__'__re __at __the, __we__'__re __drink- __no __we__'__re __drunk. __We__'__re __drunk! __At __the...at __the __bar! __The __bar, __Reese!__"_

"What?" Reese flipped on the bedside lamp, sitting up groggily. "What the f-...what bar? There are like twenty in the city."

"_The birth...the bar of, you know? Reese? Reese?"_

"I'm here! Stop saying my name! What's the name of the fucking bar?"

More insane laughter. _"__I...I __can__'__t...here__'__s __Dad, __he__'__ll __tell __you.__"_

Some fumbling noises. _More _laughing. Then, _"__Hell...hello? __Reese, __is __that __you?__"_

"Yes, Dad, it's me," Reese hissed through gritted teeth. "Could you tell me where you guys are, please?"

"_Oh, __yeah...yeah, __sure. __Uh...uh...it__'__s __that...uh, __you __know...?__" _- Reese rolled his eyes - "_...that, __oh! __It__'__s __that __place __where __the __three __of...the __three __of __us __took __Malcolm __for __his __birthday...for __his __birthday __a __few __years __ago. __Reese? __His __birthday? __Reese?__"_

"Okay, Dad. I remember," Reese said, switching on the computer to search for directions. "Just stay there, I'll be there really soon, okay?"

"_Okay, son!...Reese?"_

Reese hung up and tossed the phone onto the bed. He printed off the directions, put on some clothes, and went down to the bus stop.

He wasn't too pissed off at the situation; Malcolm had been forced to come pick him up many times before, so the least he could do was return the favor. That said, he was not at all prepared for the greeting he received upon his arrival.

"Hey!" Malcolm and Hal slurred in unison, arms slung around each other's shoulders.

Reese sighed and walked over to the bartender, who looked like she really wanted to go home. "Hi," he said wearily. "I'm their ride."

She blinked at him and slid Malcolm's car keys over the counter. "Thank God," she muttered dully.

Reese turned to his father and brother, who had approached him while his back was turned. "Okay, so let's g-" He was cut off.

By Malcolm kissing him. On the lips.

In front of the entire bar.

Well, admittedly, the entire bar consisted of the three of them, plus the bartender, and she clearly didn't give a fuck. But still. A kiss on the lips. In front of their father.

And it wasn't something that could even conceivably be passed off as a drunken greeting. Malcolm totally _laid_ one on him, and Reese, too surprised by the unexpectedness of it, simply froze up and didn't push him away. It was wet and sloppy, and Malcolm's breath tasted like booze, and it lasted at least ten seconds. And when Malcolm finally pulled away with a moronic grin, Reese just stared at him, jaw hanging on the floor, then turned to look at Hal with wide eyes.

And Hal's reaction was, if at all possible, even more surprising. True, he sort of looked like he was in pain, but more of a some-just-pinched-me kind of pain than a someone-punched-me-in-the-gut kind. And that aside, he was so drunk, he actually looked amused.

"Well now," he said, drooling slightly. "Way to hit me with it all at once."

Reese looked between his father and brother, eyes getting rounder and rounder every second. "Wh-? I...what the...what?"

Malcolm tried to sling an arm around his shoulder, but missed and ended up slapping him upside the head. "Oops," he giggled, putting a hand to his mouth. "Sorry, sweetie."

"Sw-?" Reese gaped at him, then stared at Hal, who was now laughing uncontrollably. "Can someone please tell me what the fuck is going on?"

"He knows, Reese," Malcolm said seriously, his face solemn for a moment of clarity. "We talked and...uh, well, he knows."

Reese just stared, his mind not quite able to process everything. He closed his eyes and buried his face in his hands. "What?" he said dully.

Hal's hand clamped down on the back of his neck in what at first seemed like an attack, but relaxed into an attempt at comfort. "I know, son," he said gently, pressing down on Reese's skin to try and stay balanced as he wobbled with a glass in his other hand. "I know, buddy...and it's gonna be...gonna be OKAY!"

He shouted that last word and Reese cringed, looking around to make dead certain there was no one else in the bar. "Okay, Dad," he said in a small voice, feeling a little sick. "Okay." Hal's eyes rolled back briefly, and Reese reached out to take the glass. "I think you've had enough of that," he said firmly, setting it down on the counter.

Hal's lip pouted out in disappointment, and had the situation been different, Reese might have laughed at the comical expression. But he was still in shock, and just wanted to get them the hell out of there.

Getting between Malcolm and Hal, he supported them and gingerly walked them out to the car, pausing at the door to apologize the bartender for the trouble. (She didn't respond.) He imagined they looked ridiculous, stumbling in the parking lot like a weird, three-headed creature. He managed to get the back door open by himself and pushed Hal in. Malcolm's head began to loll back, and Reese quickly gathered his brother up in his arms. He noted with some annoyance that their position was strikingly reminiscent of that of a cheesy romance novel cover.

Even through his drunken haze, this irony was not lost on Malcolm, who giggled quietly and blinked up at Reese, relaxing into his grasp. "My hero," he whispered sarcastically.

Reese blushed and scowled. "Whatever."

With a grunt, he lifted Malcolm up into his arms, carried him around to the passenger's seat, and set him down gently. Glancing into the back, he saw Hal lying across both seats, snoring heavily with his feet still poking out the door. Reese rolled his eyes and went back to other side of the car to sit his father up.

"Nn..." Hal groaned in protest as Reese buckled him in.

"It's alright, Dad," he said impatiently. "Just try to stay awake until we get home...and try not to puke on the upholstery."

He went back again to Malcolm's side of the car and leaned in to buckle him in as well.

"Hey...Reese?"

"What?" he snapped. Malcolm flinched and Reese felt sorry immediately. He stroked his brother's cheek affectionately. "What?" he said again in a softer tone.

"I'm cold," Malcolm whispered sheepishly. He jerked his head to the side. "There's...a...there's a blanket...in the trunk."

Reese nodded. "Okay, just a sec." He went to the back of the car, fumbling around for the keys in his pocket. He popped the trunk and spotted the blanket. But when he reached for it, he paused, noticing the duffel bag a foot away.

* * *

><p>Malcolm woke up around 1:00 in the afternoon with a serious hangover. He pulled himself out of bed, grumbling incoherently all the way to the bathroom.<p>

Somewhere in the middle of the shower, he sobered up enough to remember the events of the previous night. Specifically the less-than-appropriate reveal to Reese that he had told Hal the truth.

"Damn it," he muttered, lathering his hair with shampoo.

Clean and dressed, he went out into the living room where Reese was sitting at the table with a cup of coffee and some papers.

"Good morning," Reese said, not looking up.

"Good afternoon, actually," Malcolm replied, scratching the back of his head ruefully.

Reese glanced up at the clock on the wall and nodded. "Good afternoon," he agreed, taking a sip from his mug.

Malcolm gestured at the cup. "Since when do you drink coffee?" He frowned. "And why do we even have a coffee maker in the first place?"

"Dad made a pot this morning." He shrugged. "No reason to waste the rest, right?" A pause. "And...I have no idea why we have a coffee maker..."

"Huh..." Malcolm sat down across from his brother, causing the rickety chair to creak. "So where is the old man, anyway?"

"Went home," Reese responded, still not looking up from his papers. "After we talked."

Malcolm felt his stomach turn. "Oh. Yeah...how'd that go?"

"Not too bad, actually. Mostly because he had a killer hangover, but I also got the idea that he was more confused than angry. Said we needed to give him time to get used to it. Which was a hell of a lot more than I was expecting from him, so no complaints there."

Malcolm nodded, relieved. "Yeah, no kidding." Deciding to change the subject, he pointed at the papers on the table. "What's all this for?"

"Work. I have to review the accident report for the leakage the other day...and no, I have no idea what this shit says. But all I have to do is sign my initials in like fifty different places. So I guess it doesn't really matter."

Malcolm snorted. "Apparently not." After a beat or two, he frowned, noting that Reese still hadn't looked up. He leaned forward a bit. "Hey, is everything okay?"

Reese swept everything up into a pile and stuck it in a folder. Then looked up. His eyes were stone cold. "I brought in your bag," he said blankly.

"My bag?" Malcolm's brow furrowed in confusion. "What bag?"

"Your duffel bag. From the trunk. I brought it in last night. It's in the closet."

After another moment or two of not getting it, realization came in an overwhelming, fresh wave of horror. Malcolm's throat grew tight. He swallowed dryly. "Oh," he whispered.

He and Reese looked into each other's eyes for a minute, each trying to gauge the other's reaction. Then Reese stood and headed for the front door.

Malcolm bolted up from his chair and followed him. "Reese. Reese, wait."

Reese paused, his hand on the doorknob. His shoulders slumped. "Yeah?" he asked quietly.

Malcolm paused. He wasn't sure what exactly to say. "I...look, this...I..." He sighed, running a hand through his still-wet hair. "This is not...what it looks...Okay, scratch that. This is a complicated...I..."

Reese lifted his gaze and shook his head, effectively silencing Malcolm. "Don't," he said gently.

"I..." Malcolm felt his blood pumping furiously. He swallowed again. "Don't you want me to tell you?" he whispered croakily. "I think I owe you that much."

Reese looked at him blankly. "Honestly, dude...I'm afraid to know." He turned the doorknob and stepped out. "I'm going on a walk," he called. "Be back later."

Then the door clicked shut, and Malcolm was left standing alone.

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><p><strong>AN: And that's Chapter 8. Alright, I should warn you all, the darker material is coming up now. Just so you know. (The story won't end in total despair, so rest assured of that, those of you who crave happy endings. That said, the ending will be pretty twisted. Not all smiles and roses. Fair warning.)<strong>


	9. Interview

**AN: Sorry I didn't upload a chapter yesterday. I got talked into going to a hockey game (which was fun). Anyway, here's Chapter 9:**

* * *

><p>They stuck to that silence.<p>

Malcolm was surprised, not just by Reese's seeming indifference to discovering a weapon in the trunk of his car, but by his own willingness to drop the subject and pretend it never happened.

There had been a little tension that evening when Reese returned from his walk with a couple bags of groceries, but once they started cooking together, somehow, miraculously, they were able to strike up a decent conversation. It was a distraction, of course, and they both knew it, but underlying that surface-level communication was a silent agreement that this would all be forgotten.

Or at least ignored.

It was yet another circumstance of Reese thwarting Malcolm's expectations with sudden, unpredictable decisions of character that seemed to go against his entire curious-by-nature personality. It was truly puzzling.

Although, Malcolm had a sneaking suspicion that Reese's reasoning was similar to his own: that it was best to try and move on instead of dwelling on the mistakes of the past.

...Or perhaps that was just wishful thinking. The more likely answer was what Reese had said early that day: that he was just afraid to know.

That said, Malcolm couldn't be entirely sure that they really _were_ choosing to forget it. He had no idea what was going on in Reese's mind. And while life went on more or less as it always had for the next few days, he thought he could sense a real, palpable tension in the environment.

And they weren't having sex.

There hadn't been a discussion. Malcolm hadn't tried to start something and been rejected. But neither of them went for it. It was the elephant in the room, the reminder that this situation needed to be dealt with before it got out of control.

But it wouldn't. That was a reality Malcolm accepted with a mixture of bitterness and self-deprecating amusement. Their family had never been great at talking things out. And something of this magnitude was bound to remain buried, boiling under the surface.

Until it blew sky high.

* * *

><p>The detectives showed up with badges and smiles, and although their demeanor was relaxed and they made it clear from the get-go that he wasn't in any trouble, Malcolm couldn't help but feel a thrill of fear when he let them into the apartment.<p>

"Can I get you guys anything?" he asked politely, shoving his hands in his pockets as the pair sat down at the kitchen table.

"No thanks," said the tall one. "We shouldn't be here long. Just a few quick questions, then we'll get out of your hair."

Malcolm nodded, joining them at the table. He folded his hands defensively in front of him, looking back and forth between the two men. His heart rate was slowly returning to normal. They looked more tired and bored than anything else; that was a good sign.

"So what's this about?"

The shorter man pulled out a little notebook and set it down on the table. "Eric Hanson," he said, and though he had expected as much, Malcolm's stomach still clenched at the name. He was also painfully aware of the presence of a certain duffel bag that was only fifteen feet away in the closet; a fact he tried desperately to ignore.

He put on his best inquiring expression. "Yes, what about him?"

"You know him, correct?" the tall man asked pointedly.

Malcolm nodded, maintaing the bemused look to the best of his ability.

_Someone at the office must have heard Eric invite me to lunch. Great._

"Yeah. Well, sort of. He was friends with my older brother. We didn't meet in person until several weeks ago."

The detectives expressions softened. The short one leaned back in his chair, looking satisfied with that answer. "That was when you met at, uh..." - he squinted at the notebook - "the Pine Ridge diner? Is that the meeting you're referring to."

Malcolm frowned. "Yes, that's the one. Look, what is this all about?"

The two men looked at each other briefly, then the tall one said, "This might come as a bit of a shock...Eric Hanson is dead."

Malcolm's jaw dropped in a rather convincing shocked face. "Oh my God...when? How?"

"The 17th of last month. The official report, not released to the public, labeled it an accidental OD."

"He was a user?" Malcolm asked, shaking his head disbelievingly. "I mean...I only met him once, but from what I could tell, and from what my brother said about him, he didn't strike me like that kind of guy at all."

The short man nodded grimly. "Well, that's why we're here."

He looked to his partner, who continued for him. "We can't divulge all of the details - police business, you understood - but the department...uh, that's the Department of Water and Energy, you see; Eric worked for them."

"Yes, he told me."

"Yeah, we figured. Anyway, the department seems to think there's a...well, a chance, a slim chance mind you, that there may have been foul play."

Malcolm kept his face stoic, quirking his lip into a politely confused expression. "You mean...you think he was murdered?" His tone was the perfect mixture of shock and skepticism.

_Jesus, I've gotten good at lying._

The two men returned the half-smile. "Honestly, no," the short man admitted. "It seems like a clear-cut case. But everyone we've interviewed couldn't believe that he was a user. Every single one of 'em; they all vouched for the guy."

"Yeah, but it only takes one time for an overdose," the tall man added.

And then Reese picked that moment to walk in. Malcolm groaned internally.

_Fuck. What is he doing home?_

"Hey Reese," he called out, forcing cheerfulness.

Reese walked into the room cautiously, looking between Malcolm and the detectives. "Hey yourself," he said slowly, raising an eyebrow.

"These are detectives," Malcolm said, trying not to show how fast his heart was pounding. "They're here about..." he trailed off, not knowing how the hell to end that sentence. The tall man gestured at Reese and looked at Malcolm inquisitively. "This is my brother Reese," he explained.

"Oh, the older brother you mentioned?"

"No. Well, he _is_ my older brother, but not...not the one I mentioned."

Reese's eyes went wide for an instant, something only Malcolm caught, then he cleared his throat. "What's this about?" he said, directing his attention to the tall man.

"Son, do you know Eric Hanson?"

"No, I don't think so." Reese shook his head, glancing at Malcolm with an unreadable expression. "Who is he, and what does my brother have to do with...whatever you're here about?"

"Malcolm here tells us that Eric was a friend of your brother, isn't that right, son?"

"Yes," Malcolm said, pointedly not looking at Reese. "Yes, he was friends with our brother Francis. They went to military school together."

The color drained out of Reese's face as he sat down with them. "Oh," he whispered.

The detectives frowned quizzically. The short man leaned forward. "Uh...boys? Is there something we're missing?"

Malcolm sighed, running a hand through his hair irritably. "Our brother was killed in an gas fire years ago," he explained.

"Oh. I see." The two men looked surprised, but respectfully didn't push the point. "Alright, so Eric was friends with, uh, Francis, yes? Francis, alright." The short man scribbled something down on his notepad. "Okay, well all we really need from you is to know what you and Eric talked about in that diner several weeks ago."

Out of the corner of his eye, Malcolm saw Reese's shoulders stiffen, but he ignored it. "Nothing much, really," he replied with a shrug. "Like I said, we'd never met in person before then. He'd seen pictures our brother had shown him, so he recognized me and asked to talk. I think he felt guilty for not being able to make the funeral, so he wanted to make some sort of gesture."

The detectives nodded understandingly. "Sure, gotcha."

Malcolm put his hand behind his head, stretching absentmindedly. "But yeah. We just shot the breeze. Talked about work, family, whatever. Just the usual shit, you know?"

The tall man sighed, standing up with a grunt. "Yeah, that's what we figured. Just had to cover all our bases."

"Of course."

"So you didn't get any sense that there was something wrong?" the short man pressed. "He didn't act like he was in trouble with anyone, or something like that? Didn't seem like he was in over his head?"

"Nope," Malcolm replied. "It was a normal conversation. Well, as normal of a conversation as possible considering the circumstances of us having never met before."

The short man nodded, standing to join his partner. "Alright then. Thanks for your cooperation, and sorry for taking up your time."

Malcolm smiled genially. "Not a problem."

As they opened the door, Reese, still seated at the table, called out, "How did he die?"

The tall man paused. "Pardon?"

Reese turned to look him in the eye, face a blank slate. "How did he die?" he repeated softly. "I walked in during the middle of this, so I missed that part."

The man's brow furrowed slightly. "Overdose. Why do you ask? I thought you didn't know him."

"I didn't," Reese replied with a shrug. "I was just curious." He turned away, gazing out at the balcony through the glass door.

The detectives said farewell and Malcolm shut the door.

And they were alone.

Steeling himself, Malcolm turned to face his brother. Reese was still looking through the glass at the world outside, a frightening, defeated expression on his face. He looked resigned to the reality he had no choice but to accept. He'd put the pieces together.

"Reese," Malcolm said softly, moving over slowly and putting a tentative hand on his shoulder. "Reese?"

Reese didn't shy away from the touch, but he didn't really respond to it either. His head tilted upward and he stared at Malcolm with profound sadness in his eyes. "Yeah?" he said quietly, his voice shaking slightly.

Malcolm swallowed, his grip on Reese's shoulder tightening slightly. "You know everything I do is because I love you, right?"

A pause. Then a soft, "Yes. I know." Reese looked back down at the table. He lifted his hand to grab Malcolm's giving it a soft squeeze.

They stayed like that for a while, not speaking. Not talking it out.

They stuck to that silence.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: And that's Chapter 9. I know it's been a long build-up, and thanks for sticking with the story. The next chapter (which will probably be a great deal longer) will resolve a lot of the current plot threads. So get ready. As always, thanks for reading, and updates coming soon!<strong>


	10. Judgment Day

**AN: Please note that this chapter is broken up into scenes that are out of chronological order. If you pay attention to the time markings before each section, it shouldn't be too confusing to follow. Enjoy!**

* * *

><p><strong>1:30 A.M. Tuesday Morning<strong>

Dana Osbourne had been a district attorney for almost 20 years. Very few things surprised her anymore.

Nevertheless, she was a little baffled by the sight in front of her, which seemed like a real life counterpart to a particularly odd surrealist painting.

The man on the right she vaguely recognized as the assistant to the Governor. He was wearing a black suit jacket with a white t-shirt underneath...and pajama bottoms. His hair was askew, and splotches of dried blood were peppered all across his face and neck. The man on the left was unfamiliar to her, but she'd been told he was the other's brother. He was wearing a tank top and jeans, and had blots of red all up and down his forearms. And the entire side of his face was still dripping with the stuff. It was even in his hair.

The man on the left had his hands folded in front of him and pressed against his mouth, his eyes staring vacantly at the table as he rocked back and forth nervously in his chair. He looked a mess, and would probably be easier to crack.

The man on the right, on the other hand, was perfectly calm, seated upright with his hands in his lap, gazing unblinkingly through the trick window.

Gazing right at Dana. Had she been a first-timer, she would have stupidly asked the guard if he was _sure_ the glass was one-way. She knew it was just a coincidence, but it was still unnerving.

"Everything alright, Ms. Osbourne?"

Startled out of her thoughts, she smiled politely at the Chief of Police. "Yes, thank you. Just thinking." She gestured to the door. "May I?" He nodded in approval and she stepped into the interrogation room.

The man on the left looked up sharply at the noise, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. The man on the right didn't even twitch.

Dana sat down across from them and opened up her folder to review the case report.

"My name is Dana Osbourne," she said, eyes still trained on the papers. "You are..." - she pointed at the man on the left - "Reese Wilkerson?" He nodded, eyes still unseeing. "And you are Malcolm Wilkerson," she said, looking up briefly at the man on the right.

"Yes," he replied concisely.

"Okay...well, I got pulled out of bed in the middle of the night to come down here and listen to you two explain yourselves." She folded her arms, looking at them over the rims of her dark glasses. "So explain yourselves."

Malcolm and Reese glanced at each other. Malcolm frowned and turned back to Dana, leaning forward slightly. "Did...uh, were you filled in on any of the details?"

She tapped the folder. "I read the case report on the way down here. I know what happened. I need you to tell me why it happened." She leaned forward as well. "Explain yourselves." It wasn't menacing, wasn't threatening, but it could not have been interpreted as anything other than a command. One of the first things she'd learned in law school; establishing dominance in interrogation settings.

But Malcolm was unfazed. "That's not what I meant," he said, ignoring her. "I meant, did the police tell you why I asked to talk to you?"

Dana leaned back in her chair, sucking on her lower lip. "Not exactly," she admitted grudgingly. "All I was told was that you claimed to have information pertinent to my case."

"Yes." Malcolm nodded. "Huntington Farms vs. Department of Water and Energy. I have information for you."

She shrugged. "Alright then, spill it."

He smiled nastily. "First of all, you can cut the shit," he said harshly. "You know I've worked closely with the Governor for the past several years, which A) means you know I probably _do_ have valuable information, and B) that I'm very familiar with your kind's particular brand of bullshit. You can't scare me into giving up anything." He nodded at Reese. "And my brother isn't talking either."

Dana grunted in annoyance. "Yes, we know. You both refused to say anything unless you could be interviewed together." She gestured at them. "And we granted that. And then you requested to talk to me." She gestured at herself. "And here I am. So if you have information and you'll only tell it to me, then what's stopping you now?"

"I want a deal. For myself and my brother."

She sighed impatiently. "As a government employee, you know perfectly well that we don't just give away deals to anyone. There have to be special circumstances."

"These are special circumstances." He leaned forward again, a sly, almost conspiratorial grin on his face. "Look, I know your case isn't going well. It's gained a lot of press in the past few weeks, and the Department of Water and Energy isn't fucking around with the lawyers. They're probably shredding more evidence right now."

"Your point?" she interjected.

He leaned back. "I have evidence. Lots of evidence. All the evidence you'll need to win this case. I know how these things work. You can't take down the whole department. They're too big. But, if you push the right buttons, you can reach a huge settlement for your clients and maybe even take down a few of the higher-ups while you're at it."

She frowned, biting her lip. "Go on," she said slowly.

Malcolm smiled. "And, even better, you can end this whole debacle as soon as you want. The evidence I have also directly implicates the Governor."

Dana started, jerking in her seat. She stared at him, jaw agape. "So he _was_ involved," she murmured. "Jesus..."

Malcolm nodded. "Think of it. You can end this case for good, which will save you several years of your life. You'll make a shit-ton of money for your clients, which will make them happy. You'll embarrass the department, which will make everyone happy. And you can ruin the Governor. Maybe get him impeached. Which will make _you_ very happy. And very famous."

She looked at him warily. "How do I know this information is accurate?" she asked. "Why should I trust you?"

He shrugged. "You don't have to trust me. You can take all the time you want verifying everything. It's all correct. And all of the documents are original copies. As long as I get the deal I want, you can do whatever the hell you want."

Dana stood up, pacing back and forth, rubbing her chin thoughtfully. Malcolm watched her every move. Reese still sat unspeaking, looking down at the table. Dana nodded to herself, coming to a decision. "Alright," she said, sitting back down. "What sort of deal are you looking for?"

"Full immunity," he responded without hesitation. "For myself and Reese. Full immunity from prosecution for every crime we confess to in this room."

She whistled, rubbing her forehead. "Kid, I hope for your sake that your evidence is as good as you say it is."

"It is. And it can be _your_ evidence within the hour. As long as I get my deal in writing."

Dana thought for a moment, then nodded. She stood. "I'll draw up some papers."

* * *

><p><strong>7:00 A.M. Monday Morning<strong>

Malcolm woke up on to the sound of his watch alarm.

He rolled on his side. Reese had already woken up. Malcolm could hear him bustling around in the kitchen.

The birds were chirping outside.

Malcolm yawned sleepily and stood up, stretching. He walked to the window and looked outside.

_Today is the day._

* * *

><p><strong>7:30 A.M. Monday Morning<strong>

Showered and dressed, Malcolm was greeted in the kitchen by Reese carrying a big plate of pancakes, eggs, and bacon.

"Breakfast?" Reese asked, somewhat timidly.

Malcolm smiled at him, taking the plate and kissing him on the cheek. "Yes, please."

They sat down to eat, engaging in small talk about work. The clock above them ticked loudly.

Finishing his plate first, Malcolm wiped his mouth and stood to go.

"Hey."

He turned to look at Reese. "Yeah?"

Reese swallowed. "We're going to be okay, right?"

Malcolm hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah," he said softly. "We are."

"You aren't going to get...they don't know that..." He swallowed again. "It's over, right?"

Another pause. "Almost," Malcolm answered truthfully.

Reese closed his eyes and nodded. "Let me know, yeah?" he whispered.

Malcolm bit his lip. "Of course." He walked back to give him another kiss. "I love you so much..."

"I love you, too," Reese replied. He sounded more tired than Malcolm had ever heard him.

* * *

><p><strong>2:00 A.M. Tuesday Morning<strong>

"Alright," Dana said loudly, reentering the room. Malcolm and Reese jerked awake, surprised by her entrance.

"That was fast," Malcolm muttered, rubbing his eyes.

"I want to get this done. And then I want to get back to sleep." She tossed a packet at each of them. "Here's your deal. In writing." She sat down with a grunt and clasped her hands, propping herself up with her elbows. "Let's go over the stipulations of our agreement, shall we?"

Malcolm nodded in agreement. "Yes."

She flipped a couple of pages in. "Alright, you can, and should, read through the whole thing yourself, but there are a couple of things I want to point out. First of all, my boss approved your request: everything you confess to will be covered under full immunity...provided you meet our conditions."

Malcolm crossed his arms, sighing. "What are the conditions?"

"Condition number one: the office of the district attorney must verify that your information is sound and will effectively work towards the prosecution of the Governor and the Department of Water and Energy."

"Reasonable," Malcolm said. "So basically you're just restating what you said earlier? The information has to be good?"

"That's the gist of it."

Alright, well it's good. No problem there."

She nodded, satisfied. "Okay, condition number two: while you will be protected by full immunity if condition number one is met, the office of the district attorney reserves the right to declare any additional benefits void, depending on the nature of the crimes confessed to."

Malcolm frowned. "Woah, wait. What does that mean? Additional benefits?"

Dana tapped the packet with a pointed fingernail. "Right now, this deal provides you several extra allowances. You will not have to testify in public court, in the interest of saving time and protecting your identity. Also, if your information successfully results in prosecution or substantial settlement, then your crimes will be expunged from your personal record and sealed away forever." She looked at him sternly. "However, we do not yet know the extent and severity of the crimes you plan on confessing to. So, in the interest of avoiding potential future embarrassment to our office, we reserve the right to deny you those benefits should your crimes turn out to be especially heinous."

"No," Malcolm said firmly. "That's not acceptable. All or nothing."

Moving for the first time in a while, Reese looked at his brother sharply.

"That's the deal," Dana replied, not backing down. "We're taking an enormous risk granting you full immunity. Don't push your luck."

Malcolm rubbed his chin, thinking hard. He sighed. "Alright, how about this: you can reserve the right to keep this on our private records, but you rewrite the deal to protect us from testifying in court. We don't want to end up in the papers."

She thought for a moment, then nodded. "I'll have to call my boss and confirm it, but I think that's workable."

Malcolm sat back in his chair, relieved. "Great. Come back when it's done."

* * *

><p><strong>9:00 Monday Morning<strong>

Malcolm arrived at work promptly. He sat down at his desk and pretended to look busy with some papers, all the while his mind working at full speed.

He didn't like this plan at all, but time was running out.

The detectives had claimed that the Department of Water and Energy was interested in Eric's death, but that was bullshit. They were the ones being investigated, and there was no reason they would want to bring attention to the suspicious death of one of their employees. No, the detectives must have been working for the prosecution. And if that was true, then they were beginning to come to the same conclusions Eric had: that the Governor was somehow involved in the contamination debacle. That was the only logical explanation for them to even bother talking to Malcolm; he was a member of the Governor's inside circle.

The buzzer on his desk rang loudly. Malcolm pushed the button.

"Yes, sir?"

"_Get on in here, son. I need someone to type for me."_

"Right away, sir."

Malcolm took a deep breath before entering the room.

Show time.

* * *

><p><strong>2:15 Tuesday Morning<strong>

"It's done," Dana said, handing them the new packets. "The boss approved your idea."

Malcolm let out a sigh of relief. "Great."

Dana set a recording device with a microphone in the center of the table. She gestured at the packet. "Just sign in the bottom left corner."

Malcolm scribbled his name quickly and passed the pen to Reese who copied the motion mechanically. "Alright, what now?"

"Now you talk," she said. "I will sign it once the office has decided your information is valuable. If not, the deal is null and void."

"Alright." Malcolm leaned closer to the microphone. "Where do you want me to start?"

She shrugged. "At the beginning, I suppose."

He nodded. "Well, this morning, I went into work to set into motion a plan that would eventually land the two of us in this room. And it worked."

Reese looked at him, surprise evident on his face. A question on the tip of his tongue.

Dana frowned. "What do...you planned this? What are you talking about?"

"I knew I was going to need this deal. And I knew you needed stronger evidence for your case. I had evidence, but I wasn't convinced it was enough. So I got stronger evidence."

* * *

><p><strong>9:30 Monday Morning<strong>

The Governor sat rigid as a board, staring at shock at the papers on his desk.

"Those are copies," Malcolm said matter-of-factly. "I have the originals hidden someplace safe. You'll never find them."

"God damn it," he muttered in disgust. "God damn it..."

Malcolm stood, gathering up the papers. "That's your signature on every document. It links you directly to the department. It proves you are responsible for cutting corners and safety violations, and for the contamination crisis."

"I know that!" the Governor snapped, face red as a balloon. "So what is this, huh? Blackmail? Or are you just rubbing it in my face before you sell me out?"

"Blackmail," Malcolm replied coldly. "Any legislation I want passed, you approve. Any cause I want to promote, you donate to. My wish is your command. Got it?"

His boss stared at him and disbelief for a beat, then started laughing. "Oh, Lord. Son, you're getting in way over your head. You're making a huge mistake, believe me."

"We'll see." And with that, Malcolm turned and walked out.

_Not my best performance, but it seemed to work. Now for the waiting..._

* * *

><p><strong>2:20 Tuesday Morning<strong>

"I don't understand," Dana said, frustrated. "You pretended to blackmail your boss so that...what? What was the purpose of that?"

"I know him," Malcolm said simply. "I know what kind of man he is. And I figured that if he was willing to aid a corporate entity poison a bunch of people just to save a couple thousand dollars, he wouldn't hesitate to go further to save his own ass."

Reese's eyes widened in understanding, horror dawning on his face. Malcolm noticed, but tightened his jaw, ignoring it.

Dana got it, too. "You planned it," she said, stunned. "The attack? You were ready for it?"

Malcolm nodded. "I was ready for it."

* * *

><p><strong>5:30 Monday Afternoon<strong>

Malcolm met Reese for dinner at a local sub shop. They got their food and sat in the corner booth next to the window, away from the other customers.

"You need to go out for the evening," Malcolm said gently, getting right to the point. He reached across the table and gave his brother's hand a comforting squeeze. "In fact, it's probably best if you just spend the night at a hotel or something."

Reese gazed back at him, a pained expression on his face. "Malcolm..." he muttered.

Malcolm shook his head. "I mean it, Reese. I don't want you involved in this. That'll just make it worse."

"It can't get worse!" Reese hissed, a hint of anger finally showing through after days of numbness. "Things are about as fucked up as they could possibly get." He gripped Malcolm's hand tighter. "I know we haven't..." - he bit his lip nervously - "...I know we haven't really...talked about everything. But I trust you, and I know that you..." -he swallowed - "...did what you did for me. For us. But you can't do whatever you're thinking of now. This can't go any further. If you think you're, you know, in danger or something, then we just need to talk to the cops. No more fucking around, Malcolm."

"We will," Malcolm assured him. "I promise, we will talk to the cops. Just not yet. There's something I have to take care of first."

"Malcolm..."

"Trust me. Please."

Reese let out a soft noise of discontent, putting his head down on the table. "Okay," he mumbled.

Malcolm sighed. "Thank you." He stroked his brother's hair lovingly.

Reese looked up sharply. "And you promise we're going to talk to the cops?"

Malcolm nodded. "Yes, I promise."

* * *

><p><strong>9:00 A.M. Monday Night<strong>

Malcolm sat in the silence of the empty apartment, drink in hand, sloshing around in its icy glass. The lamp by the chair glowed softly, illuminating a small, protective circle in the crushing darkness.

The shotgun lay on his lap, concealed beneath a shabby quilt.

He'd been waiting for a couple of hours now, and his heart beat, rapid and irregular at the outset, had slowed to a steady pace. His focus was beginning to drift, and he found himself wondering how in the hell he'd arrived at a place like this. Sure, he could follow the events leading up to this point as well as the decisions he'd made in reaction to said events. He could understand it all piece by piece, but none of the pieces seemed to fit together; the big picture was still unclear.

And he began to feel a deep disquiet. He began to wonder if he had made a terrible, irreversible mistake.

Either way, he was beyond the point of no return now.

So he sat in the dark. Waiting.

* * *

><p><strong>10:30 A.M. Monday Night<strong>

He was beginning to doze off when he heard the soft, nearly imperceptible sound of footsteps creaking up the staircase outside.

He froze, listening carefully. Another creak.

Setting the now empty glass down on the ground, Malcolm switched off the lamp and gripped the shotgun tighter under the thick blanket.

The muffled sound of boots on the concrete stairs cut through the silence like a dull metronome, slowly growing louder. They stopped outside the door.

Malcolm drew himself up in his chair and turned off the safety as he listened to the sound of the paperclip working in the lock.

The lock clicked.

The door slowly swung open, creaking loudly, and a man garbed in all black stood in silhouette, framed like a picture out of a child's nightmare.

Beneath his focused exterior, Malcolm had to resist the urge to chuckle; even at a distance, he could see that the man was wearing a ski mask. The irony was fantastic.

The man in black didn't move at first, perhaps adjusting his eyes to the darkness, then slowly stepped in, closing the door and shutting out nearly all the light that remained. Only a small sliver of light shone across the kitchen table from the glass balcony door, covered by curtains. Malcolm heard a soft clicking sound.

_Probably trying to turn on the light-switch._

After a few tries, the man gave up on that, and the footsteps started again, moving closer. Malcolm waited, his blood pounding in his ears.

He waited until he saw a black boot cross the thin ray of light. Then he reached over and turned on the lamp.

The man gasped in surprise, freezing and turning to look at Malcolm. Seeing (incorrectly) that Malcolm was defenseless, his blue eyes glittered with malice behind his mask.

"Where are the documents?" His voice was rough with a cold edge.

"No beating around the bush, eh?" Malcolm replied dryly.

The man ignored him. "Where are they, Wilkerson? Let's get this over with."

"Save your breath, I'm not spilling." Malcolm leaned back in his chair. "So who do you work for? My boss or the Water and Energy people?"

The man chuckled darkly. "Officially? Neither. Unofficially...let's just say the governor made some calls to the department, and they made some calls to my people, and they called me."

Malcolm nodded, holding back a smile. "Chain of command. I got it."

_And I got you, fucker._

"Alright..." The man's fingers twitched, and Malcolm became very aware of the gun tucked into the back of his pants. "So are you going to tell me where they are or not?"

Malcolm pretended to think for a moment. Then narrowed his eyes. "Not," he said, lifting the shotgun.

He fired twice, hitting the man in the neck and the chest, spraying blood all over the countertop behind him.

The man's eyes widened in shock as he grabbed at his throat, a gurgling sound rising up from within his trachea. He stumbled backwards and collapsed to the ground, banging his head on the wall as he fell.

Malcolm stood slowly, discarding the quilt but leaving the gun trained on his would-be assassin.

The man looked up at him as he approached, sputtering and spitting; bubbles of blood forming at the corners of his mouth, thick crimson liquid pooling around his torso. He coughed a couple of times, shuddered, then went still.

Slowly squatting to his knees, Malcolm placed two fingers against the man's temple.

_Dead._

Letting out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding in, Malcolm set the shotgun down against the wall and stood to walk over to the bookshelf to retrieve the video camera he'd set up earlier. He took it into the bedroom and sat down on the bed to play it back.

It was perfect. The camera had caught it all, and the man had been standing close enough for the audio to pick him up. He had everything he needed now.

He picked up his cell and dialed 911.

"_This is 911, what is your emergency?"_

"A man just broke into my home and tried to kill me. I fought back, and I think I killed him."

"_Okay, sir, stay on the line, and we'll have a team dispatched to your location immediately."_

Malcolm set the phone down on the bedside table, leaving it on for the trace. He took a deep breath and went back into the kitchen. He stared down at the body in his apartment and wondered vaguely if he was sick for feeling immensely relieved.

Then he noticed that the door was cracked open.

Alarm bells immediately went of in his head.

_Two men._

It all happened very quickly. The bag came crashing down over his head, and he was struggling furiously, kicking and clawing and thrashing and gasping for air, causing the plastic coffin to expand and contract against his face. He arched his body backwards, sending them both crashing to to the floor with a loud thwack, and even beneath the confines of the bag, Malcolm could hear the assassin's cry of pain. And he managed to stab a hole in the plastic with his index finger and rip the entire thing off of himself, panting desperately with every breath. He rolled off of the man, but the man leapt on top of him, grabbing at his throat and squeezing with all of his might. And Malcolm was kicking and scratching and punching and feeling increasingly faint, and he was reaching hopelessly for the shotgun...only to see it wasn't there.

And then the blast seemed to split his eardrums in two.

As the ringing in his ears subsided, he registered that the assassin was lying on the floor beside him with a giant hole in his forehead, and that his blood was sprayed all over Malcolm's upper body.

And when he finally got over the shock of the moment and turned around to look for the source of the blast, he saw Reese standing above him, smoke still curling around the barrel of the shotgun in his hand. Blood splashed all over his face.

And then they heard the sirens.

* * *

><p><strong>2:50 Tuesday Morning<strong>

Dana and Reese stared at him, speechless.

Malcolm leaned back in his chair wearily. "So that's that," he said simply. "The videotape is in the apartment on my bed, and as soon as you sign these papers, I'll tell you where to find the documents. And then you'll have everything you need."

Dana shook herself out of her shocked state and cleared her throat. "Uh, yes of course." She nodded. "The information is...more than sufficient." She took both of their packets and scribbled her name in the designated line. "Alright," she said uncertainly, gesturing to the microphone. "Anytime you're ready...just start at the beginning, and I'll ask questions for clarification if needed, and, well...just go when you're ready."

Malcolm took a deep breath.

_Here it is. Finally._

He leaned forward.

And spoke.

"When I was fifteen years old...I killed my brother, Francis Wilkerson." Dana started, her jaw dropping wide. Reese just stared dully at the table. "I made it look like an accident. It was a gas fire ignited by a cigarette lighter, which I counted on for my plan to work. And it did."

"Why?" Dana asked, shaken. "For what possible reason would you do such a thing?"

"He was sexually abusing Reese." She glanced to Reese for confirmation, but he just shuddered a little and didn't look up. Malcolm hesitated. This was the hard part. "I confronted him about it and he said he would stop. We laid down some ground rules about his interaction with Reese..." - he swallowed - "...but he didn't stick to them."

At this point, Reese frowned, finally looking up, confusion etched across his face. "What?" he asked, his voice shaky.

Malcolm looked down at his lap, his stomach turning. He leaned toward the microphone again. "That last Thanksgiving we had together as a family, when I was fifteen...Francis drugged Reese and raped him in his sleep." Reese's eyes widened in shock, then closed shut tightly. His head and shoulders drooped, and a quiet sound like a wounded animal escaped from his lips. Malcolm felt his heart break, but he pushed on. "I hid the evidence, and waited until the right time to retaliate. And then I did."

Dana just stared at him in disbelief. "Why wouldn't you go to the police?" she asked. "Why would you handle this yourself?"

There were any number of answers Malcolm could have given to that question; answers he'd trained himself to believe over the years, such as "to make sure Reese was safe," or "to protect the family from further pain." But somehow, for whatever reason, he finally felt at peace with the truth.

"I did it for revenge," he said softly. Reese stiffened in the chair next to him. "I did it because he was my hero and he crushed my illusion of him by turning out to be a monster."

He took another breath, then continued. "So that was the beginning. I got away with it and told no one. Other than Reese, I mean; he figured it out. But the rest of the family never caught on. And I never committed another crime until about a month ago." He sighed. "Francis's friend Eric Hanson came to talk to me. He knew what Francis had done to my brother and he wanted to let me know...but in the course of our conversation, it became clear to me that he figured out that I killed Francis. So I killed him later that night. I made it look like an overdose."

Reese slumped in his chair, putting his head down against the table.

Dana folded her arms, looking at Malcolm coldly. "Go on."

He shrugged. "The rest you pretty much know. I pretended to blackmail my boss to goad him into sending someone after me. He did, and I killed the man after getting him to say out loud who sent him. I shot him with an unregistered shotgun that I lifted of off Eric. And Reese killed the second man to save me." He paused. "...and...I think that's it."

Shaking her head in disgust, Dana turned to Reese, her gaze softening considerably. "Your turn, sweetie."

Reese lifted his head slowly and leaned towards the microphone. "I...what he said, I guess," he croaked out, voice raspy. "I knew about Francis, and I didn't tell anyone...and I suspected about Eric recently...I shot that guy in the apartment because he was trying to kill my brother..." He turned to look at Malcolm, eyes red. "The rest, I didn't know anything about," he whispered.

They all sat in silence for a few minutes, then Dana leaned over and pressed the off switch on the recording device. She glared at Malcolm. "Reese Wilkerson, none of this will go on your private record and you are free to go." She gestured at the door. Reese stood shakily and shuffled out. Still staring at Malcolm, she continued. "Malcolm Wilkerson, you are cleared of all charges. But this _will _remain on your private record. It will not be available to the public, but you will never hold a government office in this country. You do not get to get off scot free, is that clear?"

"Crystal," Malcolm replied calmly.

Dana stood up, shaking her head. "You are free to go."

Malcolm stood. He walked to the door and Dana cleared her throat. He turned to look at her. "Yes?"

Not looking at him, she spoke softly. "Do you even care what you've done here?"

He thought for a moment. Then nodded. "Yes," he said truthfully. "I do now."

Then he was gone.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I think this is the longest chapter I've written so far. I hope it was satisfying. Anyway, there's more to come, so stay tuned, readers!<strong>


	11. Rebirth

**AN: A shorter chapter, especially compared to the last one. But I love this one because I feel like it really encompasses the perspective this story (and "Between Brothers") takes on the Malcolm/Reese relationship.**

* * *

><p>The next few hours went by in a haze. Malcolm used the police chief's laptop to transfer the contents of his safety deposit box to Dana Osbourne, then accompanied Reese down the long hallway to the exit. It felt like an eternity; the eyes of all those men and women staring at him, judging him.<p>

He was free. They both were. But stepping outside in the cool night air, Malcolm felt no rush of relief, no overwhelming sense of catharsis. Just emptiness and uncertainty.

The apartment was still considered a crime scene, so they had to find a motel to sleep at. It was a cheap joint off the highway, a single bed with a tiny bathroom and no closet.

Reese didn't speak the entire ride over, and Malcolm didn't press him. Oddly, it wasn't the same as the unbearable, tense silence they'd suffered through the past week. It felt more resigned. Nothing needed to be said; they'd already laid everything bare.

Malcolm chanced a single glance at his brother as he pulled the car to a stop in the motel parking lot. Reese was gazing out the side window, chin propped up in his hand, a solemn expression etched across his features. The blood on his face was completely dry now. Malcolm felt a weird sensation deep in his soul, a lost memory reclaimed: his brother standing over that boy he'd beaten up in middle school, grinning triumphantly with crimson liquid splattered across his cheek.

So much blood.

And now there was more.

The room was tiny, but warm and well-let. Reese sat down on the bed with a heavy sigh, burying his face in his hands. Malcolm closed the door and approached his brother warily. He sat down beside him, avoiding eye contact.

He wanted to move on; he'd wanted that for years. He wanted to talk it out, and cry, and hold Reese, and make love and forget all of the pain and sorrow. All the death. But there was nothing left to say. They were stuck in limbo.

They were stuck right here, in this shitty motel room off the highway, sitting on the bed in silence.

And they stayed that way until, finally, Reese looked up and, after a moment of hesitation, said, "Let's take a shower."

Startled, Malcolm swallowed the lump in his throat, keeping his gaze down. "I'm not sure that's a good idea..."

Reese shook his head forcefully. "Not that. Just a shower." He took a deep, shuddering breath. "I don't want to be alone right now." He took Malcolm's hand in his own and squeezed it tightly. "Please?" His voice was steady, but the pleading tone beneath the outward calm was unmistakeable.

Malcolm nodded and allowed himself to be guided into the small confines of the bathroom. They stripped down wordlessly and discarded their ruined clothes in the nearby trash can.

The shower was small, so the pressed close together under the hot stream of water, looking into each other's eyes for the first time that night.

It was incredibly disturbing thought to cross his mind at that particular moment, but Malcolm was overcome by the strange notion that this was the closest the two of them had come to being "brothers" in a long time. Their relationship for years had been about need and lust, and sacrifice and desperation. Reese had been his everything, his lover, his muse. His savior.

His God.

But now, he was just his brother; his brother whom he happened to love more than anything else in the world. And they were two scared boys in way over their heads. And somehow, that was infinitely better.

It was as though, in the course of a few weeks, they'd matured beyond the blind adoration of young love and attained a deeper human connection, like an old married couple. And as Malcolm looked up into Reese's eyes, he understood with certainty that his brother would never leave him. No matter what.

And he didn't cry, if only because his capacity for tears had seemingly run out long ago, but his heart swelled up with an aching pain. And profound regret. And love.

He took the washcloth in his hand and tenderly rubbed away the blood and grime on Reese's body.

Reese closed his eyes, relaxing into the circular motion. Without speaking, he pressed in closer, resting his chin on Malcolm's shoulder.

Malcolm scrubbed gently, pulling Reese into an embrace, trying to speak to him nonverbally.

_I love you. I'm sorry. I love you and I always will. I'm sorry and I don't deserve your forgiveness. I love you._

Reese hugged him back, and it was genuine and warm and Malcolm melted into his touch.

Streams of red circled in the drain as they stood in the rising steam and thundering water jet, locked together, their flesh moving slowly together as if they were a single organism.

They would survive.

Again.

* * *

><p>Thirty minutes, they were lying in bed, naked under a mass of sheets and blankets, breathing deeply in the dark.<p>

Reese stroked Malcolm's cheek absentmindedly, shivering slightly as Malcolm's cold hand snaked around to rub circles on his back.

"Do you remember that camp?" he asked quietly, his breath tickling Malcolm's nose. "The one Mom and Dad sent us to for a week in the summer when we were little?"

"I think so," Malcolm murmured sleepily. "When she and Dewey were sick, and she didn't want us in the house causing trouble?"

"Yeah."

"That place sucked, dude..."

Reese chuckled quietly. "I know...but I was thinking about that exactly."

Malcolm pressed a chaste kiss against his neck. "What were you thinking of then?"

"The ride back." Reese sighed, his chest rising and falling noticeably. "I remember being on the bus, and Francis was sitting in the back listening to music and trying to ignore everyone. You and I were in the front. Everybody on the bus was talking about what a great time they'd had, and how fun it was, and bullshit like that." He snorted. "You were giving me these funny looks and talking about how stupid they were for liking it..."

He drifted off. Malcolm opened his eyes, looking at him expectantly. "Yeah?"

Reese looked faraway. "I remember it was late afternoon, and the sun was shining through the windows of the bus. And the light was shining on your face, and I was just listening to you talk." He paused, and Malcolm was surprised to see some wetness in his eyes. "You got tired after a while and dozed off, and you put your head on my shoulder...and that was just around the time I was starting to figure out that I was...well, that my feelings for you were not exactly normal, you know?"

Malcolm nodded, listening intently. "Yeah, I got you..."

"I remember..." - Reese's eyes screwed up, as though he were trying to visualize the moment - "...I remember being so happy right then...I think that was the happiest I've ever been, other than finding out that you felt the same way." He swallowed a lump in his throat. "And I remember being brave enough to kiss your forehead, and then I sort of rested my head on top of yours..." He closed his eyes, wiping away the tears on his cheeks. "I know I went to sleep. I remember that. But I don't have any recollection of waking up. And there were times, for a while when we were kids, that I wondered if all of my life after that moment was just a dream. And I wondered if someday I would wake up, and I'd be back on that bus with you. And I'd be happy again."

Malcolm wrapped his arms around Reese, kissing him on the forehead. Reese buried his face against Malcolm's chest and shivered.

After a minute or so, Malcolm cleared his throat and whispered in his ear. "Do you still wish you were there sometimes? Do you wish none of this had ever happened?"

Reese let out a soft, choky laugh. "Not really," he said softly. "I figured out a long time ago that there's not much use in wishing for things to be different." He snuggled closer, taking advantage of his brother's extra body heat. "You've got to do what you can with what you have." He pressed a quick kiss to Malcolm's chest. "And I've got you."

Malcolm chuckled bitterly. "That turned out to be sort of a raw deal for you, didn't it?" He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, glancing at the clock. It would be light outside soon, but he suspected they would end up sleeping until the afternoon. "I fucked up everything, Reese," he whispered, his gut clenching. "I made all of the wrong decisions, every step of the way. And I got away with it..." - he swallowed - "...but it doesn't feel like it. I still feel the guilt." He brushed Reese's hair, tangling his fingers in the still-damp strands. "Sometimes I feel like you were the only right choice I ever made."

He felt Reese hug him tighter. "Don't say that," he admonished. "Even if it's true. We're at a new place now. For better or worse. And we can't waste any more time moping about our shitty lives. We made this bed and we've got to lie in it." He patted Malcolm's back reassuringly. "And we love each other. As weird as that still might seem sometimes, it's true. And we've got to hold on to that. Otherwise the guilt is going to kill us."

Malcolm felt a sharp pain in his heart. He shuddered. "How can you not hate me?" he whispered. "How can you not hate me after all the lies? After what I hid from you, and what i did?...After what I made you do tonight because I was too stupid to think my dumb plan through all the way? How can you still love me?"

Reese pulled back to look at Malcolm. His eyes reflected the same pain Malcolm was feeling. "I can't help it," he admitted gently. "It's not a rational thing, like those science books you like so much. Part of it's because I need you, and I can't imagine living without you. I can't go back to before. And part of it's because I understand your thinking, even if you were wrong. If I'd been in your position, I would have fucked it up just as bad. Although probably in a different way." He took a deep breath, touching Malcolm's face lovingly. "But most of it's just that I love you. I'm grossly, pervertedly, helplessly in love with you. And I'll be honest, right now, it really sucks. But most of the time, I wouldn't have it any other way." He smiled sadly. "Things won't be the same. Obviously. But...would you really want them to be?"

Malcolm gazed back at him, enraptured. "No," he whispered truthfully.

"Good. Because whatever we had before is gone. We have to be smarter now." His eyes lit up with a flicker of amusement. "Well, _you__'__ll_have to be smarter. And I'll try to follow your lead. And we'll get past this, and we'll take advantage of this completely undeserved chance for a fresh start. And we'll be happy." He finished that last note forcefully. Determinedly. "We'll make life our bitch."

And somehow, after saying everything he'd wanted, Reese rolled over and fell asleep almost immediately.

And Malcolm was left awake, stunned.

He stared up at the ceiling, curled up with his brother beneath a mound of blankets.

_A new beginning...could it work?_

He felt a soft warm sensation brewing in his chest. A feeling of hope.

But, closing his eyes and surrendering to the blackness of sleep, he also felt a glimmer of doubt.

Uncertainty.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Alright. There's only one more chapter left, and then the epilogue, and then the story will be finished for good. I've enjoyed writing it, and I hope you enjoyed reading it!<strong>

**Last two parts coming in the near future, so check in soon!**


	12. No Hell for the Wicked

**AN: Sorry I didn't update the past couple of days. Thanksgiving week is crazy, you know. Anyway, here's the final chapter. (I'm uploading the epilogue right after this as well.) Enjoy!**

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><p>"Your father already told me," Lois said stiffly, determinedly not looking at either of them. A little more gently, "I'm not...we're not going to...It's going to be okay. Eventually. But I'm not ready to talk about it right now."<p>

Malcolm and Reese glanced at each other, then at Hal, who just shrugged.

"That's not what this is about, Mom," Malcolm said quietly, fidgeting nervously.

It was weird; Malcolm had imagined this moment for years, dreaded it. The very idea of this conversation haunted his darkest nightmares. But now that it was here, he just felt resigned to his fate. It just felt like something that had to be done.

And it felt like some sort of bizarre intervention. He and Reese were seated on the couch in the old family home, squashed together and feeling the scrutinizing eyes boring holes in their skulls. Dewey was sitting next to them, and Lois was sitting in the cushioned chair rapping her fingernails on the armrests. Hal and Piama simply stood nearby, awkwardly surveying the scene.

"Okay," Lois said slowly, still not looking at them. "Then what _do_ you want to talk about?"

"Francis," Malcolm responded quickly, before he lost his nerve. He heard Piama's sharp intake of breath. Dewey frowned, puzzled, clearly surprised that the incestuous romance was not the most important item on the agenda.

Hal looked bemused as well, and Lois just cocked an eyebrow, finally turning to meet Malcolm's eye. "Francis?" She sounded genuinely confused.

Reese went still, and Malcolm took a moment to pat his knee reassuringly. Then, with a deep breath, he just laid it out. "We lied about Reese being attacked by a stranger. It was Francis."

Dewey's eyes widened. His jaw dropped open silently.

Hal didn't understand what Malcolm was referencing for about two or three seconds, then, getting it, he gasped audibly and covered his mouth in horror.

Piama just stared. Totally expressionless, frozen solid. Malcolm couldn't bear to look at her.

And Lois simply sat there. She looked surprised, but the emotion was restrained, insignificant in the face of her overwhelming sense of despair. The corner of her mouth twitched upward in a frightening, resigned smile. As if to say, _Of __course. __Of __course __my __pain __wasn__'__t __great __enough __already._

"You're lying," Dewey whispered, shaking his head adamantly. "You're wrong. He wouldn't..." He trailed off, looking around the room desperately, wanting someone to tell him it was all just an especially cruel joke. No one granted him the reprieve and he bowed his head, tears beginning to form in his eyes.

It was curious. The whole scene was, thus far, playing out exactly as it had in Malcolm's imagination. But there wasn't any pain; he just felt numb. The only drive within him now was the drive to come completely clean.

Whatever the cost.

And so he kept going. "That's..." - he cleared his throat - "...that's not all."

Lois looked up, her face blank. She was prepared for the worst.

So he gave it to her. "I found out what was going on, and I confronted him about it. I told him to stop. He said he would, but he was lying. He kept doing it." His body shuddered in anticipation. "So I killed him."

He closed his eyes and waited for the blow to fall.

...but it never did.

"That figures," Hal murmured distractedly, stroking his chin and staring at the floor.

Malcolm's eyes popped open. "W-what?" he stammered.

"Yeah, it makes sense," Piama said sadly, walking over to Reese to place her hands comfortingly on his shoulders. "You boys never really thought things out at that age. He was hurting Reese, and the family was already suffering, so you did what you thought you had to in order to protect everyone."

"Oh, Francis..." Lois sighed, rubbing the wetness out of her eyes. She shook her head. "Where did I go wrong with that boy?"

Malcolm stared at them, flabbergasted. Not one of them looked shocked. Even Dewey was slowly nodding his head. "What...I...you...are you serious?"

"What, honey?" Lois asked softly.

"What? What do you mean, what? I...I killed my brother!" He stood up, staring around the room in disbelief. "How are you...I mean, Jesus! How can you not care about this?"

Lois waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, stop being so dramatic. Of course we care." Her voice was bitter and sad, but it contained all of her usual strength and assurance. "I know Francis made some horrible choices in his life, but after he got married, I thought things were finally starting to turn around" She shook her head again, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I can't believe he did this..."

Dewey grunted in agreement. "That son of a bitch..." he muttered angrily.

"Language, Dewey," Hal admonished distantly, still stroking his chin.

The numbness was all washed away now, replaced by a horrible feeling of terror and confusion, bubbling up inside Malcolm like poison. He felt hysterical laughter rising in his throat, but he swallowed it down, breathing rapidly. He wondered for a moment whether or not he should pinch himself; this whole scene was playing out like something in his most surreal nightmares.

No, even worse. It was the actualization of his most abstract dreams. He'd _wanted_ this. He'd hoped for it. The entire family, even Piama, was furious at Francis, disgusted at the atrocity of his actions. Hell, on some level, they probably even _agreed_ with Malcolm's decision.

"I..." His voice caught in his throat. He couldn't speak.

Turning on his heel, he marched out the door and slammed it behind him, never looking back.

He drove down the highway, his mind spinning.

_This must be the feeling Reese described. That feeling like you're in a dream that never ends. And one of these days I'll just wake up. And I'll have to sit everyone down and tell them what happened. And then they'll hate me. And I'll deserve it. _

_And everything will be right._

* * *

><p>Reese arrived at the apartment four hours later and found his brother sitting out on the balcony in a deck chair.<p>

"How'd you get back?" Malcolm asked embarrassedly.

Reese smiled kindly at him, patting his shoulder. "Piama drove me. We had a good talk on the way back."

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have left you there."

"It's fine." Reese shrugged, dropping down into a chair next to him. "I understand why you did it."

Malcolm shook his head, totally bemused. "I just can't figure it out," he whispered. "How can this not matter to them."

"It does," Reese said firmly. "If it's a big reaction you were wanting, you should have stayed to tell them about Eric." Malcolm turned sharply, surprised. "Yeah, I told them the rest of it."

"How...how'd they take it?"

Reese shrugged again, gazing out at the sunset. "Dad cried, Piama was pretty shocked. Mom was sad that you got yourself in so deep without coming to her for help. Dewey..." - he snorted- "Dewey actually seemed a little impressed. I think he thinks you're sort of a badass." Malcolm stared at him in horror, and Reese hastily added, "He was shocked, too. He didn't just take it easily."

"I can't fucking believe this," Malcolm groaned, burying his face in his hands.

"Come on, dude." Reese scooted over to wrap his arm around Malcolm, pulling him closer. "They never met Eric. Shit, _I_ never met Eric. You know how Mom and Dad are. They're good people, but it's not like our family's ever been especially...uh...what's the word?...empathetic. It's not like we've ever been especially empathetic towards strangers, you know?"

Malcolm looked up at Reese, his eyes wracked with a deep internal turmoil. "But I _killed_ him," he whispered. "That _matters_."

"I know," Reese agreed, squeezing his shoulder comfortingly. "And that's something you have to live with. We both do." He sighed heavily. "You can't be prosecuted for it anymore, and it's not like we can force our family to hate you, so if you really feel like you're getting away with everything unpunished, then I'm sure you'll beat yourself up until you get over it."

Malcolm cringed at his brother's terminology. "I don't want to get over it. I don't even want it to be something that can be 'gotten over,' like it's a temporary sickness. I committed murder. Three times. And my stupidity backed you into a corner and forced you to kill someone to protect me." He looked down at the ground, biting his lip. "I know I'm being cynical and obnoxious and I don't mean to bring the mood down. I realize it's a good thing that they don't hate me. I really do. It's just...I've done something really horrible, and without the possibility of jail, it's like I'm just getting away with it all."

Reese didn't speak for a minute or two, then nodded resignedly. "You are," he mumbled.

"What?"

"You are getting away with it," Reese said grimly. "Sometimes people get away with it. It happens all the time, dude."

Malcolm clenched his fists in frustration. "But not when it's _me_."

Reese snorted, rolling his eyes. He squeezed Malcolm's hand, then stood up and moved to the sliding door. He glanced back with a half-annoyed, half-amused expression. "It's not about you, Malcolm. It feels like it sometimes, believe me I know. But we're not the center of the universe." He ran a hand through his hair, glancing again at the sun disappearing behind the horizon. "After Francis..." - he hesitated, then, looking determined - "...after he raped me, I thought I would never get over it. I thought my life was over and things would never, _could_ never be the same. And I was half right. Things _were_ never the same. I had you, and I got a lot closer to Mom and Dad. And Dewey and Piama. And I matured to the point where I was able to handle all the shit that's gone on the past month without totally cracking. Which never would have been possible if Francis hadn't done what he'd done." He looked at Malcolm, who was staring at him slack-jawed. "I'm not saying it was a good thing necessarily. Just that what happened happened, and there wasn't anything I could have done differently. And I _did_ get over it, Malcolm. I had to. That's what people fucking do. They get over the shit in their lives because, if they don't, they'll end up broken and alone and they'll never be happy again. And no one can live like that." He slid the door open, smiling sadly. "You're a self-centered bastard, but I guess everybody is sometimes. Plus, I really, really love you. And I know you'll be okay eventually, even if you don't think so now. You'll accept that our family will always love you no matter what, and you'll get another job, and eventually Mom and Dad will be okay with the idea of...us. And then we can start over. For real this time." And then he slipped inside and closed the door.

And Malcolm was left sitting outside in the growing dark.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I've uploaded the epilogue, too, so go ahead and read that if you like.<strong>


	13. Epilogue

**AN: Alright. At long last, here is the very end of the story. It's been fun to write.**

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><p>He still had dreams sometimes.<p>

The most memorable was a variation on the one that had plagued him for so long.

He was walking down the road of his old neighborhood. Walking with Reese, hands in his pockets and kicking pebbles into the street gutters. They were wearing their black suits.

Funeral attire.

And then Reese was squeezing his hand [across the breakfast table/in the bathroom before Dewey's graduation/on the balcony at sunset] and he disappeared into the shadowlands of the dream world. Gone, but not forever.

And Malcolm was at the doors to the place that lurked in the darkest corners of his mind, where the bilious poison swallowed up the remnants of his ever-shrinking supply of joy.

He pushed open the creaking doors and entered the decimated apartment with its blackened walls and smoking pores and ashen smell of death and regret and loss of innocence.

He gazed unafraid into the eyes of the room's sole occupant, whose tortured body stood rigid and upright, bulging eyes staring eerily underneath melted eyelids.

"I don't forgive you," he said to the figure. "I can't forgive you. Even now. Not yet." He reached out and took the shriveled hand. "But I might someday. And I'll let you know then."

The figure gazed into his eyes, into his soul. Silent. Unmoving.

Unmoved.

Malcolm squeezed the hand tight, taking in a deep, shuddering breath. "But that's not why I'm here. I don't need you to beg for my forgiveness...I need to beg for yours." He dropped to his knees, finally allowing tears to flow freely. "I'm sorry," he choked bitterly. "I'm sorry I was stupid and naive, and that I thought our family's happiness was more important than your life. I'm sorry I didn't try to get you help. I'm sorry that I gave up on you because I was angry and hurt and disillusioned. I'm sorry that I killed you. And I'm sorry that I stopped loving you. I'm sorry I couldn't go back and change it all, and I want you to know that if I could, I would in a heartbeat. And I want you to know that I love you now and I'm sorry, and oh God...please forgive me..."

And, body shaking with sorrow, he collapsed into the figure's charred arms and felt a sharp burning sensation as the skin peeled all the way off, and felt his eyes cloud up with soot as the smoke billowed up from the depths of his broken heart. And the monster before him was gone, and it was just Francis with an understanding smile on his face. And he was hugging Malcolm tightly and stroking his hair, and Reese was with them as well, and Lois and Hal, and Piama too. And they were all at the old family home, and they were all happy and loved and everything was finally right with the world.

And then the alarm went off, and Malcolm woke up.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I had actually initially envisioned doing a much, much darker ending where Malcolm is still with Reese, but Reese hates him for everything he's done, and the family despises him for his crimes. And the last scene would have been Malcolm sitting alone at a desk in his boring new job, crying because he'd lost everything. <strong>

**But I decided against it because I thought that was too easy. So I went with this, and in a weird way, I actually think this is _more_ twisted than my original plan. Because in this ending, Malcolm really _does_ get away with everything, AND gets to keep Reese. His family loves him, and Reese still loves him. So he's the only one beating himself up. Which I feel is sort of true to character, and seems like poetic justice. But that's just my thought process.**

**If you have any questions about the story, feel free to send me a private message. I'd be happy to clear up anything that bothered or confused you.**

**Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed the story!**


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